


[C] Mirror, Mirror

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Animal Transformation, Awkward Dates, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Body Worship, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Broken Bones, Crowley Has Two Penises (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Double Vaginal Penetration, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Naga, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Hatred, Shopping, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: It all started with a scale that Crowley thought nothing of. It flicked right off, like a scab, and life went back to normal. The problem arose when the scale came back. When thescalescame back, and it's all Crowley can do to hide himself before Aziraphale sees what he really is. Aziraphale can claim to love a demon, but how could he say that, in truth, when faced with what the demon looks like?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 502





	[C] Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/gifts).



> This!! Fic was absolutely fun to write. I say fun sparingly because a lot of it is very dramatic, but the concept was really interesting. I'm ever thankful that I got to work with this prompt. I hope that everyone else can enjoy it!
> 
> There is some body horror, so mind that tag. It's not over the top, but it does exist. (No explicit eye horror though)  
> And there is a lovely little explicit scene at the end. Hope you get there.
> 
> Do enjoy! Any comments and kudos are mucho appreciated.
> 
> There's a reference to a friend's fic in here, too! You guys should check it out. It's right [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056475/chapters/52638517)

Crowley had a certain list of priorities, once Aziraphale was taken care of. Aziraphale didn’t know that he was Crowley’s top priority, but it was better that way. His second top priority was making sure that he always had a chance to nap. Humans called it beauty sleep, and Crowley didn’t disagree with them. He always made sure to have plenty of it stored away, the sleep. His third top priority was his appearance. He always wanted to look his best, his most fashionable, and his most put together.

For demons, looking their best wasn’t always too incredibly important. Not to themselves, anyway. Their wings were one thing, as they tended to all be avid groomers. Their actual appearances were another thing, which most of them didn’t care about. Then, there was the appearance that humans would see—that appearance was important to every demon. After all, the devil should come dressed as everything a person ever wanted. It was the fastest way to their hearts. For Crowley, he cared about all three, as his wings were always in superb form, and his two appearances were nearly identical.

There was a fourth appearance demons had. This was the appearance other demons cared for and Crowley loathed. This was the appearance he took great pains, short of contacts and surgery, to hide. It was the part of him that remained demon. So much of his life had been spent in some desperate escape away from it, away from what he was and had been, before. Crowley didn’t want to be a demon, and he certainly didn’t want to be an angel. Crowley, who loved humans, thought it might be nice to  _ be _ human.

Looking in the mirror on this fateful morning was just proof that he was never going to  _ be _ human. He was never going to be less of a demon than he already was, and that was saying something, seeing as how he was one of the worst demons to have ever existed. Might have Beelzebub loved to see a demon who would do his job happily and without order, she had been stuck with Crowley. Now, technically, Crowley was stuck with Crowley—no one else had to stare in the mirror and see  _ this _ .

He’d meant to run his fingers through his hair and style it properly for the day, and instead, he caught himself staring. He didn’t wear his sunglasses in the privacy of his own flat, and without them, there was nothing to hide the golden terror of his eyes, their slit pupils and cracked irises. He usually tried not to stare too long into the mirror, because of his eyes, but there was something more that caught his glance, this time. It was right at the turn of his jaw, leading down to his jowls, where scales were growing.

He stared at them for a long moment, running his fingers over them. He couldn’t feel his own touch. Sometimes, he swore his scales grew out like scabs. Completely accidentally, on purpose. Crowley didn’t care about the  _ purpose  _ and just scratched them right off. They landed in the sink, where he watched for thirty whole seconds while they fizzled out into dust, which he washed down the drain.

Scales were something to be dealt with later. For the moment, he had other things to focus on. For instance, after he’d styled his hair properly for the day, he needed to put on trousers. The shirt and jacket were well taken care of, already. It wasn’t usually a good idea to style hair and  _ then _ put on a shirt, but Crowley hadn’t been too interested in putting trousers on, at the same time. Once the trousers were on, there were the socks, the shoes, and the glasses.

Then, the keys. The door. The outside. Crowley most certainly did not have a date, today, but he did have something of an activity planned. It wasn’t even that much of an activity. He was going out to lunch with Aziraphale, during the hour or so that he closed the shop for it. If that hour turned into two hours, well, that wasn’t Crowley’s problem. He was there to provide company and quality conversation topics, because that’s all that he and Aziraphale would ever possibly get along with.

This wasn’t a date. As much as Crowley might have wanted it to be a date, this  _ wasn’t _ a date. It was just a friendly get together that he was going to be sorely late for, if he didn’t get to moving faster. The only issue was that, when he got into the Bentley, the damn thing wouldn’t start. As far as he could tell, nothing about it had  _ changed _ . All the little needles were pointed in the same places they always were. It looked the same, under the hood, and Crowley did pride himself on his memory. It just wouldn’t start.

“Damn thing,” Crowley grumbled to himself. He’d just have to  _ walk _ , then.

Thankfully, he didn’t live that far away from Aziraphale. That wasn’t on purpose, if anyone ever asked. Sure, the bookshop had been there first, and Crowley had bought his flat afterward, but it was just the best deal for what he wanted in a place. The close proximity had been purely coincidental, and not at all done with a specific land area in mind. In fact, Crowley had looked at flats all over London. Not just flats available in Soho. And really, who would have blamed him, if none of that were true?

When he arrived at the bookshop, he held the door open for a retreating customer. The man did not only forget to thank him for his overly kind and chivalrous deed, but he gave Crowley a strange look, like there was something in his teeth from a salad, or something. Crowley hadn’t eaten a salad in years, so that couldn’t be right. The man then left, and Crowley stepped into the bookshop. He made a quick effort on the sign on the door, flipping it from  _ open _ to  _ closed _ . It was lunch time.

“Angel, I’m here,” he called out.

“Oh! Just a moment!” came Aziraphale’s shouted reply. He was in the back, rummaging through a stock of books.

It was something Aziraphale did, every now and again. He shuffled all the books around on the shelves in hopes of making it more difficult for people to find what they were looking for, or to find anything at all. That was the real goal, to keep them from finding anything, but it wouldn’t be very sportsmanlike to take all the books down from the shelves and still proclaim to be a seller of wares. Aziraphale had standards, however strange and out of line they may have seemed. Crowley thought they were cute, if he were being honest, and he was never honest.

“I was thinking that we should drop by that old sushi place,” Crowley continued. He stepped farther into the shop to take a peek at some of the new books. The one he glanced at was called  _ 1000 Hours _ , which had Crowley scoffing. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale could beg this one off the shelf.

“Oh, I do so love sushi,” Aziraphale remarked, coming out from the back, then.

Crowley rushed over as casually as he could, just barely managing to catch a few books that fell off the tall stack in Aziraphale’s arms. Reasonably, he shouldn’t even be working—they had a meal to get to. But if there were things that needed to be done before Aziraphale would be willing to leave, then he’d just have to do those things. Aziraphale always had a habit of getting lost in his books instead of putting them out on the shelves, like he was supposed to.

For the sake of quickness and ease, Crowley had always tried miracles. Miracles on the books were sorely frowned upon, but if they got them closer to lunch, Aziraphale wouldn’t yell. Crowley tried for the snap, hidden beneath the books he’d caught.

Only, Crowley’s not so subtle snap didn’t actually  _ do _ anything. Thankfully, Aziraphale, who was too caught up in thanking Crowley for his great deed, didn’t notice. Crowley noticed, and it wound something up in his stomach that felt a bit like dread. The sort of dread one might get looking across a busy highway and knowing that they needed to get to the other side, and yet there seemed to be no way to accomplish that. That sort of dread. Crowley had tried to perform a miracle, and nothing had happened.

“Let’s get these put up, then,” Crowley said, instead. “You’re a sucker for doing things manually, yeah?”

“Oh, Crowley, you don’t have to,” Aziraphale insisted. “If you’d rather we just go—”

“Nonsense. I know how you like it, so let’s get to it.”

Aziraphale was staring at him, and Crowley raised an eyebrow. As it were, in the rush to catch the falling books, Crowley’s glasses had slipped down the slope of his nose. As his hands were now full of books, too, he hadn’t a chance to push them back up. Aziraphale wasn’t just staring at Crowley; he was staring at Crowley’s eyes. They’d bled out into a solid gold, cracked and scaled in their own way, with the slit pupil right in the middle. It was always, in this form, that Crowley looked truer to himself.

“Everything alright?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, just fine,” Aziraphale commented. “You usually don’t wear your eyes in such a way, I mean. They look rather lovely, I always thought—like this, I mean. Well,” Aziraphale trailed off, laughing nervously to himself. “The books, then?”

“Um, thank you?” Crowley winced, unsure of just what any of that had meant. What exactly about his eyes? He needed a mirror, and he needed one desperately.

Still, he had just promised to help Aziraphale with the books. He’d chance a look at his phone later, after everything was sorted out and put into it’s not so proper place. There would be some good excuse for messing on his phone while he was with Aziraphale—checking to make sure the sushi place still served their miso soup. Crowley did admit to liking it, even where he didn’t eat much food to begin with. That would work. Aziraphale wouldn’t actually care if Crowley was on his phone, but Crowley was too worried about appearing like he wasn’t interested.

He was very interested.

They set to work with the stack of books, as it was the only stack of books Aziraphale hoped to use. Part of his secret was putting the books in front of one another, as it tended to make it look as though he had several copies of the same book out on the shelf. He, very rarely, saw people move the front book aside to see what book sat behind it, and therefore believed it was a perfectly clever move. Crowley thought it was rather clever, too, and it made sense space wise. There wasn’t as much storage space in this shop as it might have appeared, given how most of it was set up like a library.

With miracles, this would have taken them a proper second or two. Without miracles, it was an entirely manual process. Aziraphale  _ liked  _ it to be a manual process, believing that too many miracles on his books would damage their quality in some way. Crowley would have rather gone out for sushi, but he had to admit that he did enjoy these quiet times with Aziraphale. Aziraphale liked to fill the air with senseless chatter and information, always about his books and his practice.

“I might even give that one a read,” Crowley commented, idly. He’d just finished through his stack of books, and Aziraphale still had half a stack to go.

“Oh?” Aziraphale peered at him, eyes wide and smiling. “Oh, I’d certainly be amenable to lending you a copy. Would you like one?”

Crowley laughed to himself. “Sure, angel. When we get back, though. Lunch is still calling our name, remember?”

“Oh! Yes, of course, silly me.” Aziraphale waved it off in the air. “I’ll finish this quickly, now, and we should be off. I’m terribly sorry for making you wait, my dear.”

“You know me, I’m just here to provide a talking partner.”

“You mustn’t play yourself down like that, my dear.” Aziraphale frowned, but he returned to his work. “Your company is quite enjoyable, and I daresay I wouldn’t venture out to these new places if I hadn’t someone to go with.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale but said nothing. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale wasn’t incredibly forthright with his feelings on the matter, with how much he enjoyed and appreciated Crowley’s company. It was, rather, Crowley’s inability to listen. He  _ heard _ what Aziraphale said, but it always settled like a rock. Aziraphale said it, but Crowley didn’t believe it. In fact, it usually left him feeling a bit strange. He tended to just ignore it and move on with what they were doing, only, he wasn’t doing anything at this point. Just waiting.

And waiting.

Crowley eventually pulled himself off the floor and started to pace. His new purpose was making sure Aziraphale didn’t stop to actually read the books he was trying to put on the shelf, which was a tiring thing. Aziraphale loved reading books more than he liked collecting them, but this shop was the very thing that kept him away from doing what he loved. He was supposed to be selling them when he didn’t want to, displaying them when he’d rather read them. It was like watching a caged animal, sometimes.

If there were something Crowley could have done to get Aziraphale out of this downward cycle, he would. It was just a matter of finding something agreeable, that didn’t end with taking the shop away. That wasn’t entirely possible, but as things had wound down over the past years, Crowley really wondered how much of Aziraphale’s love for the bookshop was rather just his re-purposed love for the books. He worried, too much, that Aziraphale cared far more about the bookshop than he ever had for Crowley.

“That should do it,” Aziraphale said, suddenly standing up and dusting his hands off. “Crowley?”

“Right, right, yeah.” Crowley attempted to not sound as startled as he looked and failed miserably in both directions. He looked startled. He sounded startled. Aziraphale didn’t catch on.

“Shall we get a wiggle on, then?”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s—we’ll be walking, if that’s alright. Weather was so nice today, I thought it might be a chance of pace.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Perhaps we could take a walk through the park, then?”

“Don’t you have a shop to run?” Crowley offered a laugh, only to watch the light on Aziraphale’s face die.

“Oh, yes. I suppose I do. Just lunch, then. We should make it quick, I’d say. We’ve already been closed for near an hour, already.”

“Right,” Crowley grimaced. “Right. Lunch, then.”

They were off after what had been an awkward encounter, one that neither of them would try to think about on their brief walk to the sushi restaurant. It was one of Aziraphale’s favorites, and by the time they arrived, he was already happily rambling on about it and the fine things that he’d had here. He’d been here enough times that the staff knew him by name, which had always made him feel special. Food always perked him right back up, too.

Where Aziraphale would have normally seated himself at the counter, they chose a table, this time. It was a small table for two, that, in the darkly lit room, they had to lean in to really talk to each other. Aziraphale always thought it was  _ nice _ , when they met like this. He would have very much preferred for it to go farther than this, where they could have taken that walk through the park to feed the ducks. He didn’t mind closing the shop for an entire day. In fact, he wouldn’t have minded closing the shop forever.

There wasn’t much sense in keeping up a facade, anymore, with their newfound freedom. He still hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to  _ explain _ that, but it was something he could work on. After all, he’d already planned for the next time he’d ask Crowley out to do something like this—an  _ activity _ , of sorts. It wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be a date. Crowley would never agree to go out on a date with someone like him, someone like Aziraphale. Aziraphale would just appreciate what time he had, especially when that time was just them, at a table for two, in a dimly lit restaurant.

Aziraphale ordered several different sushi rolls to try, new ones that were on the menu to correspond with seasonal ingredients. Crowley, in turn, got one measly bowl of his favorite miso soup. Since they were walking, they could share a bottle of sake. They could talk quietly amongst themselves of silly and hopeful things, like the craftsmanship behind a good roll of sushi or the fine taste of their imported drink. Crowley even talked about how odd it was that his car hadn’t started.

“That is odd. Maybe it’s just a bad day for it,” Aziraphale laughed. Crowley had a bad habit of humanizing his vehicle, and Aziraphale bought right into it. Rather, he enjoyed it. He thought it was cute.

“I hope that’s all it is. If it stopped working, I really wouldn’t know what to do. Had it for so long, you know.”

“I do, and it’s served you quite well. Perhaps, walking wouldn’t be such a bad option?” Aziraphale smiled. “I could walk you back to your flat, should you need.”

“Oh, well,” Crowley tugged at the collar of his shirt. “That does sound nice, but I couldn’t ask you to do that. The shop, you know,” he trailed off.

“The shop,” Aziraphale repeated.

The shop was starting to become a rather good excuse to stop every idea that either one of them had. Aziraphale only wished he had the strength to move on from something that had been a part of his life for so long. Since the 1800s, he’d had that shop. It had been home as much as it had been comfort, and admitting out loud that he was ready to leave it behind was far more difficult than it had been to even come to that conclusion. He worried what Crowley would think of him.

The truth of the matter was that Aziraphale was far beyond ready to move somewhere else. The bookshop was just a place, after all, and it’d only ever been a place for his books. Crowley just seemed so taken with it; Aziraphale often worried that Crowley cared more for the bookshop and it’s warm, homey fireplace than he ever did for the angel there. It was a foolish thought, but Aziraphale still kept to his peculiarities, every now and again.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale suddenly gawked. “You’ve got a little something,” he trailed off, tapping himself on the jaw to demonstrate.

Crowley reached up and felt along his jaw, and once again, there were  _ scales _ there. The same type of scales from the morning, the kind that grew on top of his skin like unruly scabs or calluses. He rubbed it off with a napkin, then bunched the napkin up so Aziraphale couldn’t rightfully see the size of it.

“Uh, nicked myself, this morning. Shaving,” was his best excuse.

“Do be careful.” Aziraphale bought it, hook, line, and sinker. “I didn’t know you shaved.”

“Oh, well, yeah. I have a look to keep up, you know.”

Aziraphale laughed, and they went back to eating in a mutual silence.

After they finished, Crowley meant to just snap their bill away. It wasn’t something Aziraphale ever appreciated, but that was only when he  _ knew _ . For the most part, they would just sit there and talk about mindless things until Aziraphale felt it was time to leave, and he never even realized they hadn’t been given a bill. It was on days like today that he did realize, because Crowley’s miracle  _ hadn’t _ worked. Again.

They were presented with a bill, and Crowley made sure that Aziraphale didn’t get to see the total at the bottom of it. He did have cash, as it was something he’d learned quite a long time ago. Humans carried cash, and they expected many others to have cash on them, in return. It came in handy, especially when attempting to pull heists or get something out of a vending machine that was in clear enough sight that people would be able to tell if he was stealing. He  _ should _ steal, but he didn’t want to get caught.

Those few times paid helpful enough that, stuffed into the impossible back pocket of his jeans, Crowley could produce a wallet. He paid in cash, enough to cover a tip without making change, and they left.

They didn’t take a walk through St. James’ Park, like Aziraphale had talked about earlier. The shop was Crowley’s grand excuse, and then rambling on about something with the Bentley and the plants. He was in a rush, clearly, and Aziraphale wouldn’t be the one who stood in his way.

Always about the shop, though. Aziraphale found that the worrisome part: wondering if Crowley really found something more important in the shop, as a building, than he did the angel in the shop. Surely, that was a thought he’d see himself out of. Eventually. If only Crowley would stop bringing it up.

Aziraphale really did want to ask why Crowley was so fixated on the shop, but there seemed to be other things that were more important. A time and place for everything, and the sidewalk was no place to ask about the shop. They were directly in front of it, and even if Crowley was kind enough to stop and chat, he clearly wanted to be on his way.

“Shall I see you again?” Aziraphale asked, before stepping past the doors. “I’d rather like to do some shopping at the end of the week, if you shouldn’t mind?”

Crowley snorted. “Wouldn’t mind, at all. You just give me a call when you want me to stop by, yeah? I’ll be around.”

“I will certainly call you then, my dear, yes. It’ll be so much fun. We should stop off at that bakery to get something sweet, when we’re done.”

“Anything you want, angel. I’ll pay.”

Aziraphale grinned widely, and they had yet another date that wasn’t a date. It couldn’t possibly be a date. They didn’t do that. They were just friends. Very close friends who did very friendly things. Lots of friends went out to shop together and eat together; that wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was the way Aziraphale watched Crowley saunter on down the street, or how he pretended not to be there when Crowley glanced over his shoulder, at the shop. Aziraphale wondered if he did just look at the shop, or if it was always looking for something more.

When Crowley returned to his flat, it was in some great haste that he wouldn’t have let Aziraphale see, otherwise. In fact, his rushing hadn’t begun until he was safely inside the building of his flat, and then, he had taken the stairs three at a time. He could already  _ feel _ it back on his face: the same scales, growing back where they were. He needed a mirror to see what had happened to him since that morning, and maybe then, he could figure out what to do about it.

The problem was, staring at the mirror wasn’t revealing anything magical or unfounded about his condition, it was just  _ showing _ him his condition and how horribly awful it was. His eyes were one solid gold, and there were scales growing along the bend of his jaw, up over the backs of his cheeks, near his ear. They were the same, unsightly scab-like scales that just appeared. Picking them off hadn’t worked, so he was going to try something different.

Crowley stared at himself in the mirror with as much effort he could muster, as if staring took a lot of effort. But it did. He hated to see this part of himself—the snake part, the part of him that bubbled up in remembrance of what he  _ should  _ look like. A horrid, snake creature that was half a scaled man and half horror. He remembered claws and teeth and a sickly golden gaze. Things that he wanted to forget about himself, to hide away. They were things that just made him a demon.

Crowley didn’t want to be a demon, and the less he looked like one, the better it would be. He wouldn’t  _ be _ a demon if he didn’t look like one. He could be something entirely different, entirely on his own, and that would be something that Aziraphale could like, could maybe even  _ love _ . Would Aziraphale still look at him the same, if he knew what Crowley was?

Aziraphale had only seen Crowley in two forms. He’d seen him as a snake, and he’d seen him as a human. There wasn’t any way to know what Aziraphale had thought of the snake form, purely as a form, as there wouldn’t be any reason to ask that wouldn’t seem suspicious. Crowley didn’t want to take the risk of shattering what little world he’d built for himself, either. To find out that Aziraphale had hated that form would be the end of it, everything that they had. Crowley wouldn’t recover.

No, the best that he could do was keep Aziraphale from finding out that there was something else, lurking beneath his skin. It was a monster. Seeing it dwell up like this in scales and eyes—Crowley looked like a monster. He didn’t want to be a monster, and he didn’t want Aziraphale to think he  _ was _ a monster. If he could just get this back under control, then he’d be fine. Everything would be fine. He’d pick Aziraphale up for their shopping, when he called, and life would go on as normal.

Only, it didn’t seem to matter how he stared or what face he made. The scales did not retreat, and his eyes would not return to normal— _ his _ version of normal. In reality, this is what his eyes looked like. It was quite a lot of effort to get them to look as human as he could manage, where they were still golden with slit pupils, but at least he had sclera. He just wanted that back. And it wouldn’t come back. The scales were there. The eyes. The  _ scales _ .

“Damn it all!” Crowley shouted, throwing his hands up. He took his nails to his skin and ripped the scales right off, again. This time, they left angry red in their wake where the skin tore but didn’t bleed.

His eyes stayed the same, but in the moment that he looked at himself in the mirror—the scales had not returned. He figured that meant they were gone for good, this time, and that’s just how it should be. He couldn’t let Aziraphale see him like that, and he  _ wouldn’t _ . If Crowley had anything to say about it, and he had  _ everything _ to say about it, Aziraphale would think he’d had a real scab, and that was it. The end. No more. He wouldn’t even consider the alternative.

Aziraphale had said the weekend, but that was too far away for his liking. It hadn’t taken him more than a few hours to realize that it was too long of a wait, but there weren't any shops open this late. The bakery certainly wasn’t. There was nowhere to go, even if he did call. But if he simply called earlier, then it would only be hours. Hours that might have passed quicker if he went off to sleep, but there was something much more satisfying about finding time to curl up with a good book.

Often, he did wonder if there were other bookshop keepers who read their own supply, or if he was the only one. It would seem a foolish thing to be the only one to partake in such fineries, but he hadn’t known the humans to always be entirely with sense. They did make some strange decisions, but then again, so did he. The more he thought about it, truly, so did Crowley. They had both made some rather strange decisions in their time, and yet the would-be strangest decision of them all was the one Aziraphale was now hesitating on.

There wasn’t much use in prattling on about it. He would just ignore it, like he did with all of the important things. He would meet Crowley, because Crowley always came when he called, and things would continue in the same way that they always had. Aziraphale wouldn’t need to worry about his decision for the shop’s fate, because he would just continue to believe that Crowley was interested in him,  _ not _ the shop. Even if Crowley talked about the shop, constantly. Used it as an excuse, constantly. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in the shop. No.

Things were fine.

Aziraphale read well into the morning hours, promptly past the opening time for his shop. Frankly, it didn’t bother him. He was waiting, precisely, for the moment that it was socially acceptable to give someone a call, and then an extra thirty minutes to be sure that Crowley had plenty of time to wake up. Aziraphale did always try to be as courteous as possible. That meant he’d only really waited until nine-thirty in the morning to give Crowley a call, but that was late enough, in Aziraphale’s mind.

The ringing of his phone sent Crowley into a near panicked state, straight from his bed and onto the floor and a whooping shout. He scrambled to get back up to his feet without throwing anything else down onto the floor, barely managing to succeed once he finally was off the floor, himself. He managed to answer his phone just before the ringing stopped, and he answered it while trying, and failing, to mask the panting in his breath.

“H-hey, Aziraphale,” he greeted. “What’s up—” he bit back on his tongue, cracking his neck back and forth. The hissing. The  _ hissing _ —he wished it would stop.

“Oh, did I wake you?” Aziraphale responded.

“Ah, no, I’m awake. I’m up. Something happen?”

“No! Heavens, no, everything is quite fine,” Aziraphale said, like everything was not fine, but Crowley was too caught up in also believing that things were fine that he didn’t catch the lie. “I was wondering if you might be agreeable to moving our plans around, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Is that an issue? I could certainly call back later in the week. I just thought that it might be, well,  _ fun _ !”

“Fun, right, yeah. Of course,” Crowley bit back on his tongue again. If he could just talk without that particular  _ sound _ , then he’d be fine. “I can be there in fifteen minutes—s, just let me get dressed.”  _ Fuck _ .

“The door will be open for you.” Aziraphale’s smile was already faltering. It didn’t  _ sound _ like Crowley wanted to go and do this with him. Crowley was coming, so Aziraphale had that to look forward to. It still didn’t appear to be what he’d wanted to do, and still he was doing it.

Aziraphale could have taken that as Crowley making a grand and valiant sacrifice to be with him  _ or _ that Crowley would have rather been anywhere in the world than with him. Aziraphale, who hadn’t quite mastered the art of not over-thinking anything, chose to believe the second option.

Crowley hadn’t wanted anything  _ more  _ than to take Aziraphale on his arm, through the town. He’d just been so concerned about the hiss in his voice—it hadn’t been there yesterday; he’d been able to control it—that he hadn’t been focusing on his tone. Their issue had always been something of communication, where they were each too afraid of pushing this rock of a relationship down the precarious hill it was set on to try something new, so they stayed exactly where they were.

That meant running through the same routine. Put on the shirt, the jacket, the tie, and then style the hair. Crowley plucked off another obnoxious scale, but it was the only one. The pants. The keys—not the keys, because the Bentley wasn’t working—and his sunglasses. Crowley was ready faster than usual, and then he was out the door, on his way to the bookshop.

As far as Crowley was concerned, everything was going strictly according to plan. He was prepared for the entire day to be enjoyable, relaxing, and even  _ fun _ . As much as he claimed to hate fun, Crowley was just as much a sucker to it as everyone else. Having fun with Aziraphale was one of those things that would get him out of bed in the morning, now that there was nothing much for him to do. He just wasn’t expecting the part where, upon arriving at the shop, Aziraphale was nervously pacing.

Crowley stepped into the bookshop, as the door was open for him—as promised—and let it shut behind him with far more force than would be otherwise necessary. It was the only surefire way that Aziraphale would hear him enter, seeing as how the bell hadn’t done much. He always did this, this thing where he was wrapped up in his own deep thoughts without a care for what was happening around him. If Crowley wasn’t deeply, helplessly, and stupidly in love with Aziraphale, he might have found it annoying.

Only, Crowley was  _ not _ in love with Aziraphale, and it was annoying.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley waved. “What’s got your halo in a twist?”

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks and stared. “Oh! Oh, heavens, dear boy, no. It’s nothing. You frightened me.”

Crowley blinked. “You were expecting me, I thought? We just talked on the phone.” He made the little gesture with his hand against his face.

“Yes, right. I was caught up in something, rather. I do apologize,” Aziraphale gave a tentative smile.

“Did you think I wasn’t coming?”

“No! No, oh, Crowley, what would give you the impression that I didn’t think you were coming?”

Crowley wanted to say it was how Aziraphale was such an awful liar. He was fidgeting, would have been sweating if that was something angels did, and had even repeated the question back. It was like Aziraphale had read a manual on  _ how to catch a bad liar _ and thought it was a guidebook on how  _ to _ lie. Instead, Crowley didn’t say anything. He just smiled.

Aziraphale needed to gather his  _ things _ , whatever those were. Crowley was sure he just walked off and walked back, trying to get a few last-minute paces in before they had to leave. Their agenda was entirely open, save for the vague plan of a bakery stop and shopping. Given the fact that they could miracle whatever it was they needed, Crowley wasn’t exactly sure what Aziraphale needed to buy, but shopping was one of those things that he loved to do.

It was something about being human, and Crowley could relate. There were a few things about his demonic powers that he  _ did _ love, though, which is why he didn’t exactly want to be human instead of a demon. Just something else, something else that understood the importance of participating in the local economy, as well as got to snap his fingers every now and again when he wanted to get rid of something bothersome. Surely, Aziraphale could agree.

They were walking again, down the street. While it wasn’t exactly the sort of vision Crowley had, walking along with Aziraphale on his arm, all happy and smiles, it was still enjoyable. They were close enough that their arms brushed every now and again, especially with the way Crowley liked to saunter in the way that he did. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, even if he looked nervous. They just needed to hit their first stop to get him into the groove of their little activity. And there was no better first stop than the bakery.

Crowley did the ordering, always suave about it where he leaned into the counter and smiled. The woman behind the counter was helpless but to listen to him, and there wasn’t a person in the bakery who would blame her. Even Aziraphale wouldn’t, though often, he wished that Crowley would turn that attention onto him. Though, it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to admit out loud. Wanting a hapless playboy to flirt with you wasn’t very angelic of him—and Crowley wasn’t a hapless playboy, either. Aziraphale had to tell himself  _ something _ .

“One cinnamon bun,” Crowley presented, shocking Aziraphale right out of his little hapless daydream.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale smiled in return, taking the bun. It was wrapped cleanly in a piece of wax paper for easy eating. Then, Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. Crowley had gotten himself a sickly-looking doughnut covered in white frosting with pink sprinkles.

“Nothing wrong with a doughnut,” Crowley chided before Aziraphale even had a chance to say anything.

That perked Aziraphale right up, and he was laughing by the time they left the bakery. Crowley was even  _ eating _ the doughnut—it wasn’t just for the show. Whether it was just Crowley’s way of making Aziraphale happy or it was something he wanted to do it, it didn’t matter. Crowley had accomplished both things at once, with a sickly-sweet doughnut and Aziraphale smiling at his side. Their arms bumping.

Their first stop ended up being a stop of convenience. They’d walked past a green patch where a little flea market was set up, and Aziraphale had looked so longingly at it for a few seconds that Crowley couldn’t help but take him by the wrist and drag him off. Aziraphale tried to protest, and it was oh, so noble, but it died quickly. The second they were in the market, Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with so much joy and excitement. A veritable kid in a candy shop, and Crowley really hated clichés.

“Did you know,” Aziraphale started talking, “that you can find the most amazing things at shops like this? You wouldn’t imagine the things that people just get rid of.”

“I have some idea,” Crowley replied. He was busy looking at an old-fashioned record player, just sitting there like an ancient antique. He liked music, and Crowley had once spent a lot of time collecting vinyl. It might have been nice to have something just as old to play them.

“I once was able to find the final piece of one of my oldest collections right in a market like this.”

“Oh?” Crowley looked after Aziraphale, then. “You never told me that.”

“Oh, I’m sure I did. It was one of my finest achievements—though,” Aziraphale stopped, then. “You might have been asleep, when it happened, I mean.”

“Right, that was a thing. Well, you should catch me up on stuff, then. Love to hear about everything I ever missed.”

Aziraphale, who had been inspecting a leather-bound journal with half the pages ripped out, suddenly stopped and looked at Crowley. “Surely, you wouldn’t want to hear me ramble on about that.”

“I believe I did just ask. Could do it over lunch, sometime, hm?”

A smile broke out over Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, yes. I’d like that, very much.”

“Whatever you like,” Crowley added, his own smile blooming forth. Aziraphale was helpless to it, really. He couldn’t deny the weak feeling in his knees that  _ he _ was the one to make Crowley look like that, such a gentle and soft smile on his face.

After that, it seemed well enough time to break whatever soft facade they’d created with a bit of fun. Crowley liked to play this game when faced with old and broken things—antique or just weird? They’d been around enough to know the difference, and that just because one could find a dusty, elephant shaped lamp in their attic did not mean that it was an antique. It was perfectly funny, though, to see things like that at a flea market. Flea markets didn’t  _ just _ sell antiques, after all.

Some people seemed to think that they did, and there was nothing funnier than telling a prospective buyer that the box she was looking at was hundreds of years old and had been, once, held by the King of France in the sixteen-hundreds. The buyer did believe Crowley, because humans were so hard pressed  _ not _ to believe him. Even without his magic, he still had that bit of charm that just oozed right off the tip of his damnable, still-hissing tongue.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, “you shouldn’t tease the locals.”

“It’s all in good fun,” Crowley insisted. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely convinced, but he certainly did spare a laugh in the poor woman’s honor.

They returned to their private, separate shopping, after that. Aziraphale did end up finding a book he wanted to add to his  _ personal _ collection. Crowley ended up buying the record player, and once again, a failed miracle meant that he had to figure out what to do with it. Thankfully, Aziraphale was more than happy to help this time, looking at it as one of those things Crowley had  _ wanted _ to ask him for, but just hadn’t had the words. It was cute, and if that was what Aziraphale needed to think, Crowley would let him think that.

Aziraphale’s book was wrapped in tissue paper and then put into a bag that had clearly been crumbled up in someone’s closet for too long, left over from a trip to the pharmacy on some Sunday afternoon. The mode of transport didn’t matter, as long as it was there. Aziraphale didn’t use miracles on his books, and there was something special about getting to carry a silly little book away from a flea market. Even if, eventually, Crowley would be in possession of said book in bag.

Their next stop was something Aziraphale had wanted to do. It was another place where someone could be so lucky to find a fine piece of antique furniture or decoration, but it was Aziraphale’s favorite place to shop for furnishings. Antiques were certainly his style, to a fault, where he, himself, often looked like one. There had been a time where Crowley had begged that he update to the modern times, but that had been years ago. Now, Crowley was just happy to see that some things never changed in a world where everything did.

A clock would be the first thing to catch Aziraphale’s eye. It was a cuckoo clock, one that could hang on the wall with big, walloping chains hanging down from it. Aziraphale was absolutely enamored with it, and Crowley had to agree. It was a beastly looking thing, but that sort of beastly where there was an urge to buy it—because who else would? Crowley did always have a penchant for the downtrodden and the ugly, so maybe he should be the one to buy it.

Aziraphale was rather entranced with it, and it showed well on his face. There was always something in him that had him hesitating to just  _ do _ things. A leftover fear of indulgence, perhaps, though he’d never been afraid to indulge in the best food or properly fit clothing. It was the other things, the more frivolous things that he was afraid of. Angels weren’t exactly supposed to have material possessions, and here he was, staring at a bulky, ugly cuckoo clock because he felt  _ bad _ for it.

“We can keep it at my place,” Crowley spoke up, just before Aziraphale lost all hope and shied away from it. “I’ll even buy it.”

“You?” Aziraphale gawked. “What use do you have for a cuckoo clock?”

“And what use do  _ you  _ have?” Crowley smirked.

“I—well, that is to say.” Aziraphale frowned, but he hadn’t said  _ no _ .

Crowley had an attendant take down the clock and begin wrapping it up at the counter while they continued to shop. There were old plates, vases, and chests to look at, still. They’d only just walked into the shop when they’d both seen the clock, and history had most likely been made in the fastest purchase decision of one demon and one angel, who were both too entirely caught up in what the other one might think of a decision to make them altogether quickly.

They’d just made their way back to the back of the store when Aziraphale had found a particularly interesting little personal fountain. It was the kind that needed to be plugged in, but Aziraphale would certainly whip something up to keep it going wherever he wanted, if that’s what it took. It was a beautiful little thing, with an intricate scene on a rocky slope made out with small buildings and smaller people. Aziraphale didn’t pay much attention to signs that advised careful touching, but if he broke it with his incessant poking, that was his own fault. He’d fix it right back up.

“And here I thought they frowned on frivolous miracles,” Crowley snorted, watching one of them fix a fallen little person figure.

Aziraphale frowned at him, over his shoulder. “Nobody’s watching anymore, and it’s not frivolous. I might want to buy something.”

Crowley huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Just more  _ stuff.” _

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to take that, and so, he didn’t say anything. He went back to looking at his little fountain, chewing at his lip and wondering if Crowley really  _ did _ think he had too much stuff.

In the meantime, to avoid continuing what he’d just started, Crowley had stepped off to look at something else. He hadn’t meant to make a comment about it, but it was easier to find something to fixate on that wasn’t his current scaley problem. Worrying about Aziraphale’s attachment to the bookshop was stressful, but far less stressful than what Crowley was trying not to become.

This antique shop had an over-supplied stock of mirrors, though some of them were so original that the reflection was muddied and distorted. Crowley didn’t need a perfect, clear imagine—he knew what he looked like. The muddied, distorted image was all he needed for that panic to strike him, right through the pit of his soul when he saw what was happening. He would thank God Herself for Aziraphale’s absence and the dim light in the shop.

There were scales pushing their way out of his skin—not just growing on top of it, as they had been. Each new scale was growing at an alarming pace, ripping his skin right apart to make room where it could clamp down into another point and stick. He could  _ feel _ every inch a scale pushed out, split right through him and stuck itself. Every inch. Every centimeter that passed over him, and there were more scales growing up over his face like he was about to  _ transform _ .

It’d never happened this slowly. The few times he’d changed between Eden and this awful mirror had been quick, fast, and  _ voluntary _ . He  _ hated _ changing. Hated seeing what he was,  _ who _ he was—and now, it was ripping out of his skin like a monster, and there was nothing he could do. Control had been stolen right from him, and this was the consequence. Turning into an awful snake thing right in the middle of a  _ store _ . Aziraphale was right  _ there _ , and Crowley was everything that he’d never wanted to be.

He was going to be sick. His face was changing shape right in front of him, and it wasn’t  _ him _ . This was a demon. This was a monster. This was  _ Crawly _ , and Crowley wasn’t ever going to be  _ that _ again. He was going to vomit, right in the middle of a store, and it wasn’t anything about the pain of scales growing out of his skin. It was knowing that  _ this _ was taking control away from him, that no amount of staring or effort was fixing this. He didn’t have any  _ power _ —

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was behind him.

Aziraphale was behind him. Aziraphale was going to grab his shoulder. The only thing blocking Aziraphale from  _ seeing  _ this was that the angle meant he couldn’t see the mirror over Crowley’s shoulder. Aziraphale was concerned and was going to  _ see _ what a monster he was. The scorn of the earth. Damned to the deepest pits of Hell. Cowley was a monster, and Aziraphale was going to  _ see _ —

“No!” Crowley shouted, and  _ fuck _ he didn’t mean to shout. “No, I have to go. Fuck,  _ I’ll—”  _ he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

All Crowley knew was that he had to go. He had to get out of there before his nightmare turned any worse, and there wasn’t even any magic to get him out  _ faster _ . There wasn’t even time to hear Aziraphale call after him through the loud ringing in his ears. He had to go. He had to  _ leave _ . Cover his face. Find a way out of here, out of this—out of this body. It wasn’t him. It didn’t feel like him. Wasn’t right. Wrong, wrong,  _ wrong _ —

Crowley was running, and he didn’t even realize he was running. Pushing his way past people, throwing himself down the street like he didn’t care. He didn’t care. He ran right past cars, no mind if they hit him or not. It’d be fine. He  _ wished  _ that they would, but there was something that kept him from just standing there. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. He had to  _ get _ away, back to his flat. Lock the door. Bar the door. Bar the windows. Close the curtains. Lock himself away until he was  _ him _ again and not this pounding monster at the back of his skull.

Crowley couldn’t get into his flat fast enough. He couldn’t get the  _ door _ open fast enough, and if the transformation had been any farther along than it was, he might have had claws to rip the doorknob right off. Instead, he needed  _ motor skills _ to get it unlocked, and the panic was making that so difficult. In the quiet of the hallway, there was no one to see his half-scaled face, his protruding snout. That did nothing to calm the nerves, but he managed to get the door open regardless.

Once he was inside, he slammed the door shut and locked everything he’d ever put on it—the knob lock, the chain lock, and the deadbolt. It wouldn’t stop a miracle, but it might be just enough to deter Aziraphale from coming after him. He couldn’t risk Aziraphale seeing him like this. He couldn’t risk  _ anyone _ seeing him like this.

All there was left to do was get his heart back under control, but Crowley had gone all but helpless. Ruined. He didn’t make it two steps into his study before he collapsed down to the floor, his legs suddenly too weak to carry him. All at once, he was heaving, digging his nails into the ground as pain ran right through his body, through every limb, every fiber, every  _ nerve _ . He would scream, but the sound would die in his throat as his face tore and his bones cracked.

There was blood dripping down the tip of his nose in the exact moment he could  _ see _ his nose, covered in sickly black scales and shimmering in the shape of a snake head. It wasn’t  _ him _ , but the more he fought against the transformation, the more it cracked and broke him down like he was nothing. He  _ was _ nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing more than this monster, and try how he might, there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from becoming it.

His bones cracked and dismantled, shattered into pieces that shed out through the cracks of his skin where the scales were growing until his limbs were gone. Until he was  _ nothing _ more than a writing snake on the ground without the strength to get out of his mass of clothes. All he could think about was the mess that he’d made of everything. There were bone chips and blood all over his floor. The remains of what he was. Never what he should have  _ been _ , though. Because this is what he was. A snake. A monstrous, dirty, demonic, conniving little snake.

Aziraphale had been left standing in the antique shop, eyes wide and baffled at what had just happened before him. He couldn’t help but wonder if it’d been  _ his _ fault. If he’d been the reason Crowley had bolted so fast from the store. Without anything else to go on, it seemed like the most natural response. Aziraphale had dragged him out, and Crowley, being unable to keep up his facade, ran from the scene in a rush. The pit that it left in Aziraphale’s chest was astronomical, and he quite felt like crying.

Instead, he gathered what little pride he had left and paid for the cuckoo clock. They wrapped it up nicely in paper before stashing it in a box, which went into a bag for easy transport. He’d stop back by the bakery, on his way to the shop, because that had been the plan. He’d buy himself a lovely bit of bread and some pastries before heading home. He would barely speak to anyone. He would barely look at anyone. And he would lock the door of the shop.

Aziraphale barely had the strength to put his things away. Once he had, and only then on wobbling knees, he collapsed into his armchair. His book was sitting out from the night before, a night where he’d been too excited for their outing to even think about doing anything productive. This time, he couldn’t even fathom picking the book up and continuing. There was plenty of time for reading, but there was only the  _ now _ to mourn the loss of his day. Of Crowley. He’d been  _ so excited  _ to spend a day with Crowley, and this was how it ended.

Not even his phone would give him solace. All he had to do was call Crowley, and he could do it out of concern. Crowley had rushed so fast out of the shop that Aziraphale was concerned for his wellbeing. Crowley couldn’t be bothered by that, could he? That someone he’d long since called his friend was concerned? Aziraphale thought that he would be and didn’t even glance at his phone. It would be a long night. A long night, alone and away from Crowley, as if Crowley had never wanted to be with him at all.

Come morning, after Aziraphale had mustered his strength to call Crowley, there had been no answer. There would be no answer. Crowley, still a writhing snake on the ground the size of a monster, hadn’t so much as moved from the night before. Since then, the bones and the blood around him had all disappeared, melted off into sparks of magic that Crowley didn’t have. Because this wasn’t him. He hadn’t even mastered the strength to move, again, like this. It was too different.

He’d never really gotten the hang of legs, but he’d had them. They’d felt apart of him. Now, they were gone. Burned off in stains on the floor. It was hard to move, or even breathe, when he didn’t even feel like himself. This body felt like it belonged to someone else, like he was watching a massive snake lie in his own apartment, from some place off screen, off to the side. But it wasn’t him. And every moment longer he believed that, the weight of his body seemed to feel like stones.

The phone kept ringing.

It was like being trapped inside a nightmare, one of his own design. There was no better place to be locked than inside the mind, and Crowley’s mind had done an excellent job of keeping him complacent, here. Take away all of his abilities to control himself, and everything happened easily enough, afterward. Locked away inside a body that wasn’t his—Crowley couldn’t get past that. He couldn’t get past seeing with his own eyes but swearing they belonged to someone else. He didn’t  _ belong _ in this body.

Hell would tell him that he did. That this was the closest he would get to the truth of his form without the potential loss of whatever sanity a demon should have, in the world. As if Hell knew what he truly was, he would hear it time and time again. Be who you  _ were _ , not what you  _ want _ to be. It didn’t matter if he lived with himself day in and day out; Hell acted as if it knew him better, as if he would be the end of all he was, and he would never see past it, again.

Act like a demon, Crowley. Talk like a demon, Crowley.  _ Kill _ like a demon, Crowley. Always like a demon, and even if they could mock him with a name, he chose himself, he could hear the whisperings when he’d walked away. Something was wrong with  _ Crawly _ .  _ Crawly _ wasn’t acting right. When was the last time  _ Crawly _ had grabbed a soul? No matter how hard he tried to separate himself, distance himself, Hell just pulled him right back. This must have been their newest reminder.

He hadn’t seen a demon since the body swap, and he hadn’t been to Hell. They’d even promised to leave him alone. Crowley wanted to blame it on them, but the longer he laid there, lethargic and broken, the less sense it made for Hell to be at fault. He’d never heard of them being able to manipulate a body, like this, from so far away. Believing that this was his own prison was worse. It was so much worse to think himself trapped in a body he’d made for himself, even if he’d fought it tooth and nail.

One thing was certain. Crowley had no idea what was happening, and there was no way for him to fix it. He couldn’t move. He could barely think. He couldn’t  _ talk _ . And the blasted phone kept ringing. It never went to the answering machine, because Aziraphale would have been more concerned with hearing  _ Crowley’s real voice _ on the other side. A voice that Crowley couldn’t give him. Oh, how it hurt to realize that bit of fact. Crowley was useless, helpless here.

Eventually, Crowley did find the strength to move. It was after hours, when the phone had finally stopped. Aziraphale had given up, presumably, and Crowley was more alone than he’d ever been. The best that he could think to do was find enough strength to hide himself away and rot, and there was no better place to do that but in his bedroom, where the mirrors set up on the outside of his closet would be more than enough reminder of what he was. This body, if he couldn’t get out of it, must have been him, truly. As much as he wanted to deny it. As much as he hated it.

He was sure Aziraphale would hate this, too. Somewhere, inside of himself, he wanted to believe Aziraphale wouldn’t hate him in this form. Aziraphale would see him as a snake and not be horrifically reminded of how Crowley, with just an apple, had damned the entire history of mankind into oblivion and hopeless servitude to a darker fate. Crowley had done that. Aziraphale should hate him for it, and the only reason Aziraphale could hide that hatred was that Crowley didn’t look the way he had, once, when he was evil.

He must have still been evil, otherwise, he wouldn’t look like a snake. A massive, scaled beast that hissed and writhed on the ground. A punishment. God hadn’t been happy with just throwing Crowley out, no. She had to ruin him until he wasn’t himself and wasn’t himself all over again. Crowley, as he was, was just a mass of questions and things he didn’t understand. Things he didn’t know. Questions, dreams, and hopes. And the only person left to blame was himself.

Even once he’d found his way onto the bed, he had nothing more to do than to look at himself in the mirror. His massive body. Long. Slithering. Disgusting. He hated it. Unfortunately, snakes couldn’t close their eyes. Should he fall asleep, he would still and always be staring right at himself, the himself that wasn’t  _ him _ . Crowley had tried so hard to become Crowley, and this is what he got for it.

Sleep only came because he was worn out, tired of fighting with himself. It did not come peacefully, and it did not come easily, but it came. In came in terrors and dreams that felt too harsh to be real, and still, he might have believed them. And then, only then, where somewhere back in reality he could hear the ringing of his phone, again, did another dream start.

Aziraphale was there, suddenly. In his bedroom, between him and the reflection of himself. Aziraphale always looked so worried when something was wrong with Crowley, yet, always with hesitant hands like he wanted to help but wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He knelt beside the bed, still just tall enough to block Crowley’s view of the mirror and laid a tentative hand along Crowley’s neck. His fingers felt so warm on Crowley’s body, against his scales. But it was a dream. It had to be.

“You poor thing,” Aziraphale said. “Look at you, all holed up like this. It’s no way for you to live, you know.”

Crowley had nothing to say in response. He couldn’t talk. The words died in his throat.

“Crowley, listen to me,” Aziraphale whispered, his face close. “You just need to breathe, alright? You’re so lovely, like this. You shouldn’t torture yourself like that. I know how much you like to do human things.”

Crowley  _ sighed _ , felt the shift of his body as he breathed. It made Aziraphale happy to see him do that. There was nothing he wanted more than to make Aziraphale happy.

“That’s better, isn’t it? Oh, can I get you anything? Perhaps you’d like something warmer?” Aziraphale laughed. “You always keep your flat so cold, and I can’t figure out why. Does it keep the bills down?”

Crowley hadn’t ever thought about it. He didn’t keep his flat too cold, but maybe it was colder than a snake body would like.

“I’ll turn the heater up then, shall I?”

Crowley must have nodded, because Aziraphale smiled and left the room. He didn’t return, but the flat was suddenly much warmer than it had been before. Almost too warm, but it was a comforting sort of thing. Aziraphale did it. Aziraphale wouldn’t have wanted to see anything bad happen to him, even if he looked like this. Even if he was a  _ snake _ . Because, in Aziraphale’s mind, snake didn’t mean what Crowley thought it meant. It wasn’t an identity, a crime, or an insult. It was just what he was.  _ What _ he was.  _ Who _ he was an entirely different story, and Aziraphale had always believed that Crowley could chose that for himself.

When Aziraphale didn’t return, Crowley knew his dream was over. He shouldn’t have dreamed something so soft, in the first place. It would give him the wrong idea: Aziraphale would accept him, like this. The dream might have been what he needed, though, because when Crowley woke up, something was  _ different _ .

He was still snake-like and covered in scales, but his face was back. He had a face, scaled and scarred, but a face. He had a neck, shoulders, and arms that pushed him up to see the rest. His collarbone disappeared into the red underbelly, where he lacked a body from his chest to his feet that wasn’t a snake’s. But it was something. It was something of  _ him _ back, even if his hair was so much longer, already, and there was rot forming over his cheeks. It was still  _ better _ .

Maybe it wasn’t better, though. He was still mostly snake, only entirely more monstrous. If he had just stayed a snake, at least he could be a snake, but like this—he was a monster. Some horrid, half-snake, half-human hybrid looking  _ creature _ . It was one step closer to being back in a body that belonged to him, but it was far too many steps away, still. It was going down a longer road that he’d never traveled, where he would have to learn each and every body part back into its rightful place. And how, it wasn’t  _ fair _ .

Crowley worked himself down from the bed and braced himself against the wall until the whole of his body followed. He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be a snake, but his  _ body _ remembered. With his arms, he could drag himself, if he needed to, but his body would remember how to move. He just needed to give it time. The phone was ringing, again, and this time, he needed to answer it. He couldn’t risk Aziraphale getting antsy and coming over here, of his own accord. The deadbolt wouldn’t stop him.

Crowley slithered across the floor, down the hallway, and back to his study. He ignored his plants, as much as it pained him. Apart of him didn’t feel right, looking at them and taking care of them in a state like this. When he wasn’t  _ Crowley _ . The plants felt like something that were too soothing for the monster, thing that he was. So, he went on past them, straight to his desk, where his phone was. Aziraphale never called his cellphone, and was, really, the only reason he still had  _ this  _ phone.

He should get rid of it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley answered the phone, his voice harsh and masked in a growl that wasn’t his own. “ _ Leave _ me alone.”

“Crowley—”

Crowley hung up, immediately, letting the phone clatter to the ground as he dropped from the desk. He didn’t have nearly as much strength as he needed to work like a proper snake, but he’d get it back. Maybe. Getting his strength back meant he’d have to  _ accept _ looking this, a horrid fucking monster. He’d seen himself in the mirror, and it was all he needed to see to know he needed to keep Aziraphale as far away from him as possible. Aziraphale would see this. Aziraphale would  _ hate _ him.

Crowley’s skin was rotting away, bubbled and boiled over where the scales had fallen off in his sleep. He had seen the mess on the bed and ignored it, like he ignored everything around him. His eyes were sunken in. Whatever was left of living skin was marred with protruding veins. Worst of all, where he had what back of his body that he did, it wasn’t  _ right _ . His head was shaped weirdly, his hair had grown in length, and his neck was far too long. He wasn’t  _ human _ . He’d never  _ look _ human.

When he’d seen himself in the mirror, Crowley had been afraid of what he’d seen. He was one sharp set of teeth and a pair of claws away from being something worse, something horrifying. Something he’d only ever been once, and the tales that were told about it in mythology and lore were enough to keep adults from their sleep, through the night.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was just left sitting in his shop, dumbfounded. He hadn’t even  _ opened _ the shop, today. It was becoming less of an issue, each passing day he refused to open it, his need to keep it. He was starting to realize that he didn’t really want it, like he used to, and that was what mattered. It didn’t matter, really, if Crowley liked the shop; it wasn’t his shop.

The whole world belonged to Aziraphale, and all the time within it, but still, something was missing. The shop wasn’t the answer; it had never been the answer. He knew where the answer was. That answer had just answered his phone call and told him to go away.

To leave him alone.

Aziraphale chewed down on his bottom lip as he thought about it. Crowley didn’t want to see him. There was a part of him that wanted to take that fact and rot with it, wallow in his own misery that Crowley hated him and had never liked him, but the more he thought about it, how could that have been true?

He remembered Eden, of all things, when Crowley had looked at him like that. His big eyes, his smile, his absolute endearment at the fact that Aziraphale had just given his sword away. It wasn’t even the first time that Crowley had looked at him like that. Crowley had been looking at him like that for ages—like Aziraphale was the greatest thing that God ever made. He’d not only looked at him like that, but he’d  _ saved _ Aziraphale. So many times, he’d been the only thing between Aziraphale and death.

Then, there had been the bombing at the church. Aziraphale thought about that moment more than he ever meant to, at times when he didn’t mean to. Crowley had walked on consecrated ground to save him, and then saved his books, on top of it. Taken him home. They’d had such a lovely evening, in the wake of all that was happening. It was beautiful, really. Wonderful. Crowley wouldn’t have done something like that if he didn’t at least  _ like _ Aziraphale.

Things had only gotten more intense, from then. How could Aziraphale forget? Crowley, in the fear of what might happen should the world come to its bubbling, boiling end, had tried to get Aziraphale to go off with him.  _ Together _ . He’d done everything he could to save them both, and in the end, hadn’t he? And what had moved him to action had been the silliest thing, thinking back on it. On threat of Aziraphale never speaking to him again, Crowley had literally stopped time.

Crowley didn’t hate him. Crowley  _ couldn’t _ hate him. Maybe Crowley didn’t love him, the way that Aziraphale loved him. Maybe Crowley didn’t long for his touch the way Aziraphale longed for Crowley’s. But Crowley certainly didn’t  _ hate _ Aziraphale.

“Why would he say something like that, then?” Aziraphale wondered to himself.

He’d already begun pacing, his hands wrung out in front of him. There had to be a reason for Crowley to say something so cruel, especially when he was bound to know how much their relationship meant to Aziraphale. It was the only thing that he had. The only thing that they both had. Would Crowley really try to ruin that just for some alone time? There were other ways to tell Aziraphale that he needed to keep his distance. They’d gone years before, without seeing each other. Aziraphale could keep to himself.

That left him with one conclusion, and one conclusion only. Crowley was in trouble. He couldn’t call for help without alerting whoever was with him, which meant Aziraphale was  _ supposed _ to go through this horrible emotional roller coaster to figure it out. They really needed to come up with a better system for telling the other they were in trouble, because so far, their skating back and forth wasn’t working.

Reasonably speaking, Aziraphale didn’t actually know what was wrong with Crowley. He had no way to know. He just assumed the worst, that someone from Hell had come to break their oath and things were getting messy. Crowley had only moments to answer the phone before he was pushed back into whatever horrid thing was going on. Aziraphale only had his limited imagination to make up a scenario, and no matter what he’d come up with, he had no idea how to prepare himself for it.

“This is stupid,” Aziraphale told himself. He was going to do it anyway.

Aziraphale was about to miracle himself directly to Crowley’s flat and break through his front door in some horrid hero-fantasy where he was the one to rescue Crowley. It was going to be absolutely stupid of him, but he was going to do it. For Crowley. Crowley had done stupid things to save him so many times; it was the least that Aziraphale could do in return, for him.

It may have been a slight mistake to miracle himself in front of Crowley’s flat instead of inside it, but he hadn’t figured that the door would be locked. He pounded on it with his fist, shouting through the door, and  _ praying _ that Crowley would answer him. That  _ someone _ would answer him, even if it was just a demon. He needed into the flat, and jiggling the handle wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Nothing short of a miracle.

What he didn’t know was that Crowley was desperately,  _ desperately _ pulling himself across the floor to hide back into his bedroom, where he could lock the door again and have another board of security between him and Aziraphale. He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to  _ go _ . He couldn’t miracle himself a hiding spot, couldn’t snap himself to a different location. Where would he go, looking like this? One look in the mirror showed him that he was getting worse and  _ worse _ as the time went by, where it was like his skin was melting straight off his face.

Aziraphale couldn’t see this. Aziraphale couldn’t  _ know _ .

But still, that pounding on the door didn’t cease. Crowley knew he didn’t have much time until Aziraphale gave in and just used his miracles. Then, it was a game of cat and mouse. Would Aziraphale be able to find him? Crowley hadn’t been able—or wanted—to turn on any lights. It was dark, and evening was growing near. Maybe he could just wait out long enough that Aziraphale thought he was gone, but he’d have to hide.

He knew when Aziraphale had gotten in because the pounding stopped. 

Aziraphale had just snapped his fingers, and he was inside the flat. He never liked to intrude, but there was no option now. Breaking into Crowley’s flat was the only way to find Crowley, to ensure that he was okay. He would be looking for a black snake in the dark, but he didn’t know that. Given the state of the flat, horribly untouched and still, Aziraphale could only fear for the worst.

Aziraphale started in the study, looking through everything that he could find. No dead body. No snake. No Crowley. The only sign of anything was the phone clattered on the ground, which Aziraphale helpfully picked up and put back on the desk. With nothing in the study, he moved on. There was nothing in the kitchen except food near past it’s prime in the refrigerator and dishes that needed to be done. No Crowley.

Crowley wasn’t in the plant room, and by this time, Aziraphale was even starting to look in the stupidest places. When he reached the lounge, Aziraphale checked under the desk, under the sofa, behind the television. He checked anywhere that he could think to look, and still, nothing. He even checked the closet on his way down the hall, and nothing. The bathroom in the hall was also empty, and relatively unused. Crowley had two bathrooms in his one bedroom flat, for some reason, and he clearly only ever used the one. The one that was in his bedroom.

That was the last place to check, then. Crowley’s bedroom. When Aziraphale went to it, the door was locked. At this, he couldn’t help but smile. There was nothing that led him to believe what he had believed: that Crowley was in mortal danger or somehow gone. This door wouldn’t be locked, if that was the case. No. Something was  _ wrong _ , but perhaps not the type of wrong that required panic and fighting. Maybe this was something that Aziraphale could fix through talking.

“Crowley, dear?” he called through the door. “Crowley, are you in there?”

Crowley didn’t answer. He instead coiled himself a little tighter into the corner, on the floor where his bed blocked the view of his mirrors. He didn’t want to see himself. There was a strange fear inside of him that, one more look, and there’d be scales growing straight from his eyelids. There was no logical reason to fear it, but the image of scales gouging out his eyes and the blood that would follow was enough to keep him hidden, his hands over his face, in his hair. He was  _ terrified _ .

“Crowley, please, open the door,” Aziraphale tried, again. “You have to be in there. I just want to see you.”

“No, you don’t,” Crowley finally replied, and he regretted it, instantly.

“Why wouldn’t I? Am I not the one who invites you everywhere?” Aziraphale laughed. “Sometimes, I think it’s you who doesn’t want to see me. Is that what this is about?”

“No—no, that’s not even,” Crowley sighed, and curled up just a little tighter. “Just go, angel.”

“Crowley, I  _ can’t _ . I need to make sure you’re alright—”

“I’m fine!” Crowley shouted, his voice breaking with it. “I’m fine. Get out of my flat—now!”

Aziraphale sighed, resting his head against the door. “Crowley, I will come in there whether you invite me or not.”

When there was silence, Aziraphale sighed again. He pressed his hand into the door, right above the knob, and opened the lock with another miracle. After a moment of hesitation, just to gather himself completely, Aziraphale pushed through the door.

Inside, Crowley’s room was about as pitch black as it could get. Crowley could only see because his eyes worked like that, but Aziraphale had entirely human eyes in a human corporation. He stumbled about the room, only for his uncertainty. He didn’t know the room. There wasn’t much to stumble over but for his own two feet, but still, he stumbled. He had his hands out in front of him, searching for something solid to ground him. When he found the bed, that was the end.

All it took was one glance and he could see Crowley, the way that his golden eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Anyone else would have been terrified to see it, but Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. Crowley wasn’t dead. Crowley didn’t look so hot, just from the glaze over his eyes, but he wasn’t dead. Aziraphale could have fallen over him in his excitement, and when he stepped around the bed, he  _ did _ trip. Right into the wall, where he caught himself with a sudden gasp.

Crowley looked,  _ felt _ , horrifically ashamed. He pulled the end of his tail up to him as fast as he could, but Aziraphale had already seen it slithering across the ground, coiling up beside Crowley. He watched the end of Crowley’s tail disappear like that, half tucked underneath the bed. It was hard to see, and Aziraphale wanted to believe that his eyes were deceiving him, but he’d just tripped. He’d tripped right over Crowley’s  _ tail _ .

Aziraphale gulped and stepped back, closer to the door. Crowley could already feel the lump forming in his throat—that Aziraphale was leaving. Aziraphale saw what he was, even in the shadows, and was so terrified that he had to go. Instead, the light flipped on. Just the overhead one, where Crowley had lamps in his room, too. But still, it was enough light that, when Aziraphale retraced his steps once more, he saw Crowley for everything he was.

Crowley, with his rotten skin, his scales, his strange proportions, and how he was a snake from the chest down. In short, Aziraphale saw a monster where Crowley should have been. One set of sharp teeth and two sets of claws short of a whole monster. Only moments and partials away from being the horrible creature of legend, but he couldn’t work the transformation either way. He was no closer to being a full snake than he was to being a full human.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Go,” Crowley said again, wrapping his arms around himself. “You don’t need to see this.”

Aziraphale took a tentative step forward, and then he dropped down to his knees just before the coils of Crowley’s tail began. He didn’t touch, but Crowley could see in the shake of his hands that he  _ wanted _ to touch. He wanted to reach out for Crowley, and Crowley couldn’t fathom  _ why _ .

“What’s happened to you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nothing— _ go _ ,” he pressed, in return. Aziraphale just shook his head.

“I won’t leave you like this. I was so worried that something had happened, and to know that you’re alive, well, Crowley, I’m so relieved.”

“Great. Go be relieved somewhere where you don’t have to see me like this.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. With it, his courage somehow grew, and he reached out to put his hands on Crowley’s tail. “Why would I want to do that?”

Crowley eyed him.

“Let me help you,” Aziraphale whispered, into the space between them. “Crowley, please, don’t send me away.”

Crowley sucked in a deep breath, but he nodded. He gave in, just like that, letting his desperate need for Aziraphale’s company stop him from keeping Aziraphale safe and away this form. This was something Aziraphale didn’t need to  _ see _ , but there he was, running his fingers over Crowley’s scales. Crowley wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, what any of it meant, but he knew he didn’t  _ really _ want Aziraphale to leave.

“Should we get you into bed, then?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley jolted with a sudden rush of panic. “N-no! No, I don’t—I can’t.”

“Oh, surely, you can climb into bed. It’s right here,” Aziraphale smiled and patted the mattress.

“It’s not the bed—it’s the mirrors. I can’t—I don’t want to see myself like this. It’s not right. It’s—I’m  _ disgusting _ .”

“Well, I admit, you’ve had better looking days, dear. You’re still you, under there, though, aren’t you?”

Was he? Crowley wasn’t so sure. Nothing felt like him. The only thing that even still looked like him was the color of his hair. His features were all wrong. His eyes. His melting skin.

“I can’t,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale relented, then. He left Crowley and made way for the closet, where Crowley had several other sets of black sheets waiting for a reason to be used. They seemed the perfect thing for this, and Aziraphale took down the non-fitted sheets. It took two sheets to cover up the expanse of mirrors in Crowley’s room, but once they were, Crowley was already trying to pull himself onto the bed. The floor wasn’t entirely comfortable, and neither was the crick in his back from the way he was sitting.

Aziraphale rushed to his side, helping Crowley manage up onto the mattress. Then, the rest of his tail slithered on after. Aziraphale grabbed the end of it to help hoist it up, and that was all it took. Crowley was comfortable, or as comfortable as he could get, curled up on his bed with his back to Aziraphale. If the sheets hadn’t been there, he’d be staring right at the length of himself. How so much of him was a snake. What was there that remained of him?

“Do you need anything to eat? Drink?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley didn’t respond.

Eventually, Aziraphale just let out a hefty sigh and sat down on the bed, beside Crowley. He sat on the side facing the mirror, closest to the door, so that Crowley couldn’t avoid looking at him without closing his eyes. Somehow, he was going to make sure that Crowley knew he was there for him, regardless of  _ what _ he looked like. In fact, Aziraphale even shifted so that he could look directly at Crowley; he could see every awful deformity, the rotten, melted skin. There was even bone protruding from Crowley’s cheeks, and still, Aziraphale looked at him.

Crowley didn’t look back. He had his arms around his chest, staring forward like he’d be looking directly in the mirror, if he could. Just another way to hurt himself when he was already hurting so badly. Aziraphale could tell how bad it hurt—Crowley was trembling, and he didn’t even seem to realize. The stress of this form was tearing his body apart, and if something didn’t happen soon, Crowley was going to discorporate under the pressure of his own existence.

Aziraphale reached out and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, only to watch him jerk. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, so he couldn’t knock the touch away. Beneath his hand, Aziraphale could feel every tremor that coursed through Crowley, and his heart ached. He wished, endlessly, that there was something he could do to ease something. Anything. But Crowley continued to tremble, his nails digging into his own skin.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Aziraphale asked.

“You can go,” Crowley responded.

Aziraphale squeezed his hands into fists and shook his head. “Crowley! Stop—please!” he begged. He  _ begged _ . “Stop telling me to leave. I won’t do it!”

Crowley bit down on his lip, and Aziraphale watched it bleed.

“You’ve never left me once, Crowley. Even when things were at their worst—even when you believed that I wasn’t on your side, you  _ never _ left me. I refuse to do anything different; don’t you understand? You mean too much to me for me to leave you here in this state. You’re  _ hurting _ , Crowley. I can see that, plain as day. I want to help you. I want to  _ be _ here with you, if that’s all I can do. Please, don’t send me away. I couldn’t bear it.”

Then, for the first time, Crowley looked at him. He really  _ looked _ at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could see the cracks in his skin along his eyes. Crowley might have thought for Aziraphale to look away, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes squarely on Crowley, on his  _ face _ , where the worst of the damage had already been done. He wouldn’t be afraid of Crowley, because Crowley had never given him a reason to be afraid.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, softer, this time. “I care about you too much to leave you like this.”

Crowley gave a weak nod and looked forward, again.

“I’ll turn up the heat, for you,” Aziraphale muttered—like in the dream. “I’ll bring some water, as well. Do you think you could drink something? It might help you.”

“Sure,” Crowley croaked back.

Aziraphale went off on his own, then. He stopped by the thermostat in the hallway, to turn it up to a comfortable temperature. Then, he made his way down the hall and to the kitchen, where he could get a glass for water. He knew Crowley would probably deny it, but he put the water on a tray with various different types of food. Crowley kept food in the house for days when Aziraphale visited, but the refrigerator was clearly not working properly. They needed to eat some of it, or Crowley would be left with a box of rotting mess.

On his way back to the bedroom, he stopped to water the plants. It would only take a moment, a quick miracle to ensure they were cared for, and then he was on his way. Back in Crowley’s bedroom, he hadn’t expected anything to be different in the ten minutes he was gone but seeing Crowley like that had him frozen in the doorway, for just a second.

Crowley looked miserable. Aziraphale wouldn’t call him a monster, because  _ Crowley _ wasn’t a monster, but he did look rather dreadful. Scary, to anyone who hadn’t reason to know Crowley wouldn’t hurt them. Someone might have seen a monster lying there, but Aziraphale saw his friend. Aziraphale saw someone whom he loved, whom he wanted to protect. And all he could do for him was bring warm food and water. It didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like nearly enough.

“I brought some food, too,” Aziraphale said, sitting back on the side of the bed. He rested the tray on the nightstand and let his arms fall down to his lap, helplessly.

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale looked at him, shocked. Crowley actually reached for something off the tray and took a bite. He pushed himself up to drink the water, and when he wasn’t all curled up on himself, Aziraphale could see everything in more, eerily morbid detail. And yet, there was no bone, anymore. Crowley’s skin was still rotted, but the melting had been undone. It was firmly back in place, where it looked no worse than that of a freshly dead corpse. Aziraphale wouldn’t call that  _ good _ , but relatively speaking, it was better.

They sat in silence for some time, while Crowley chomped on food. He didn’t normally eat, but the plan was, with more strength in his body, he might be able to combat this better. It would take time for his corporation to metabolize the food, but it was something to get started on, sooner as opposed to later. Aziraphale just sat by and watched, hoping for whatever it was that Crowley was hoping for. With the both of them, maybe hope would be enough.

The truth was, as much as Aziraphale wanted to help, there was nothing that he could do but be there. As Crowley ate, Aziraphale rubbed along his scales in hopes that it would be the least bit soothing. Somehow, where words failed him, he wanted to say it loud enough that he wasn’t afraid of Crowley. That this look of his didn’t make Aziraphale care for him any less or want to be around him, any less. Their friendship was important, no matter what Crowley looked like.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Aziraphale asked. “I bought the cuckoo clock we both loved. If you wanted, I could bring it over.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“The book I picked up at the market was wonderful. I ended up purchasing bread from the bakery on my way home.”

“How long has it been?” Crowley asked. “Since we went out, like that?”

“Oh, it hasn’t been long. Just two days—well, today would be the second day. However, I wasn’t willing to wait any longer. I came to the conclusion that you couldn’t possibly hate me, given all the times before that you’ve been there to rescue me. I figured there must have been something else going on. Actually,” Aziraphale laughed, “I assumed you were in danger.”

Crowley scoffed out a laugh. “I might be,” he replied, in earnest. “I feel trapped inside of this—this  _ thing _ that I’ve become.”

Aziraphale offered a sympathetic smile.

“I can feel my body  _ dying _ ,” he whispered.

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “If you die,” he said, “I will go to the pits of Hell, myself, to find you, Crowley. But  _ please _ , don’t let that happen.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Crowley lamented. “Where can I go, looking like this?  _ Why _ do I look like this?”

“I don’t know, Crowley, but you mustn’t give up. You mustn’t. Perhaps you should just try and rest, for now. It is late, and I do know how much you love to sleep.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” Crowley muttered, curling back in on himself.

All Aziraphale could do was shake his head. He didn’t know, and he was sure Crowley wouldn’t like his answer. Aziraphale believed that Crowley had done  _ nothing _ to deserve this, but that it was just another obstacle of life he would have to face. A consequence that came from being so far separated from Hell in a way his soul wasn’t used to. The answers Crowley sought were answers he would have to find on his own; nothing from Aziraphale would offer him any help.

Aziraphale found himself a comfortable place on the white leather sofa, in the lounge, while Crowley finished his eating and fell straight asleep. He would stay there for the entirety of the night, flipping through the television channels and wondering just what it was humans saw in this form of entertainment. Aziraphale much preferred his books, but he hadn’t brought any. Sure, he could have appeared one right into his hands, but he didn’t like to perform miracles on his books. The telly would do just fine, for the moment.

Come morning, where Aziraphale qualified nine as late enough to return to the bedroom. He hoped Crowley would be awake, and if he wasn’t, he was about to be. Aziraphale didn’t have much of a mind for the appropriate time to rise, as he never slept. He’d learned that it was somewhere between eight and noon, but that wasn’t exactly helpful. That left a large window of guessing, and so, he guessed. Crowley’s door wasn’t locked, but all that meant was that he hadn’t gotten up from the bed.

Crowley was actually awake, though. And Aziraphale was rather shocked. Crowley wasn’t sitting, but he was  _ up _ , somehow, like there was a bend in his tail that had him up farther than he had been, before. There was something incredibly different, too. The scales on his body had retreated down to the bottom line of his pectorals, and his bones had all cracked back into place. His head was of human shape, his neck a normal length. His skin was still rotting and loose, his eyes a solid gold, but he was beginning to look more like himself. The  _ himself _ that he believed in, anyway.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted, happily. “You’re looking much better.”

“I’m still a snake,” Crowley replied. When he glanced at Aziraphale, he saw how his comment ripped that joy right off of Aziraphale’s face, and the pang of regret was immediate. “But thank you,” he amended.

Aziraphale nodded. “Might I sit with you?” he asked.

Crowley gestured to the side of the bed and shifted his tail off to the side, to make room. Aziraphale came to sit down, pulling his legs up onto the bed so there was more that he could shift and face Crowley. Crowley returned his glance, this time, without really shying away as he had been. His arms were down in his lap, if it really could be called a lap, instead of masked around his chest like armor. That, and he did have a chest, this time. Aziraphale was sure to take note of that.

“Do you know anything about this?” Aziraphale asked. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Crowley snorted.

“No,” came an immediate, hasty reply. “It’s just different. That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that, so he only sighed.

“But why do you look like this, I mean?” Aziraphale continued. “It’s like you’re mid-transformation.”

There was nothing more to do than explain it, then, and Crowley would do so in as much detail as he could muster. He started at the beginning, where demons were more than what they appeared to be. Even in Hell, there was the outer skin that made them look normal, approachable by some strange definition of the word. Some demons looked worse than others, and not all chose to wear a skin on top of that skin like Crowley did. The rotting skin was just an ailment of Hell, and Crowley chose to mask, his.

Then, there was what lied beneath it all. The true form of a demon—their essence, essentially. Crowley could be a snake, yes, because that was his essence. But that didn’t mean that was the form his body would take, most naturally, without the confines of a corporation or  _ standards _ , like he seemed to have. Most demons didn’t have angels that they didn’t want to strike down with fear at the sight of them. In his tired state, Crowley even mentioned as such, and Aziraphale said nothing.

Crowley’s true form was a form he’d taken only once, and it had been an accidental panic. His body was currently stuck somewhere between assuming his true form or going one way or the other—human or snake. But his true form, as Aziraphale could probably gather from his wrecked state, was that somewhere in between. It had been the form granted to him by Satan, Himself, and Crowley had never liked it. Never felt like it was the body that he belonged in.  _ Crowley _ wasn’t evil. That body was. Everything about it was.

And silence followed. Crowley had no more story to share, and Aziraphale had nothing to say. They were just staring at each other, while the words hung heavy over top their heads and in the silence between them. There was so much to understand and unpack from that story, alone, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure where to start. His best bet, as it always was, was just to guess.

“You were afraid I would be terrified of you?” he had to know.

Crowley looked at him. “Aren’t you?” said in such a way that it was obvious what he really thought. Crowley was terrified of himself.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Aziraphale said, moving closer. “I could never be afraid of you, Crowley. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve protected me and saved my life, many times, you know.”

“I was there for most of it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, of course. For all that you’ve done for me, do you think that I could really be afraid of you?”

“When I look like this? I think anyone could fear me.”

Aziraphale put his hand over the bend in Crowley’s tail, and Crowley stared at the place where they touched. It was warm. Aziraphale’s hand was so incredibly warm.

“Crowley, I  _ know _ you. You could look like an old lady with a peg leg, and I would still know you. Rotting skin, tail, and all—you’re still Crowley. You’ll always be Crowley, dear.”

As if it were that simple. As if the way that he looked, no matter how demonic, didn’t matter. That he could still be  _ nice _ , damn it all to a four-letter word, and look like a monster. That looking like a monster didn’t make him one. And maybe it  _ was _ that simple. He didn’t like that it was that simple, if it was, and he’d gone to all this horrible trouble, anyway.

“What did you mean?” Crowley asked. “When you said that you cared about me?”

Their eyes locked, and it felt like that was the end. It was the question that would lead to the end, if Aziraphale answered it. It was the question that would lead to the end, if Aziraphale didn’t. The only issue was, he didn’t  _ know _ how to answer it. Could he really just tell Crowley that he loved him? Would that really change anything?

In the end, all Aziraphale could do was sigh. Nothing he said would be enough and saying nothing was almost too much. Crowley was just staring at him, hoping for something, and nothing was coming. There was just silence, sighing, and breathing. But it was a funny thing, because the silence somehow said more than Aziraphale ever could, as Crowley was reaching for him until their hands were locked together, fingers intertwined.

“We’ve never been very good at talking, have we?” Crowley asked.

“Not about the things that matter,” Aziraphale admitted, squeezing Crowley’s hand back. “Do you remember when we had our fight at the bandstand?”

“Clear as day.”

“I think about it so often, Crowley. I could have lost you forever. That risk wouldn’t have even been there if I had just known how to speak to you, and look at us now.” Aziraphale’s voice was growing desperate. “There’s something hanging here, heavy, and we can’t even speak of it. What’s wrong with us?”

Crowley just shook his head. “I don’t know, angel. It wasn’t proper for so long, being on opposite sides, and all—”

“Don’t you see, Crowley? We’ve never been on opposite sides,” Aziraphale pleaded, squeezing Crowley’s hands with both of us. “We were  _ always _ on our own side, and I’ve—I’ve managed to convince you otherwise, when it’s you I should have listened to. I’ve been a  _ fool _ , Crowley. All this time.”

“You were scared,” Crowley assured. “Just like I am, now.”

Aziraphale scooted closer, still. “Oh, Crowley, you have no reason to be afraid. I wouldn’t leave you like this, alone. I’d do anything I could to help you.”

“You are helping. Just be here. It helps.”

It did help, but things still had to be done. Aziraphale did want to eat, and as he explained, there was plenty of food about to go bad. That was when Crowley admitted the problem, and it was far less exciting than he’d imagined it would be: Aziraphale’s reaction. Aziraphale just smiled and said things would come back when it was time, and then he was off. He’d seen a souffle sitting in Crowley’s fridge, and he was desperate to try it. Crowley had made it, and it would be a waste to let it go bad.

The second he left, things started to change. Crowley’s voice failed him with the cracking started, when his body shifted so violently that he fell from the bed. His arms cracked and splintered, and he could feel the extra bits and pieces coursing underneath his skin to form the bones he’d lost, when he grew the tail. His spine came back in full force, his ribcage, and his pelvic bone. All back from extra bones and new things that grew and stretched inside of him—a pain so horrid that he could not even scream.

His skin fit back into place, scales receded down the length of his body as his bones snapped back into place, his muscles reformed, and his  _ body _ was back. Most of it.

In his panic of falling, he’d grabbed the sheets hanging from the closet to guard the mirror and landed on the floor with them. It meant that he could  _ see  _ himself, now. And it was an equal part horrifying sight as it was a glorious thing, to see what he’d become. He could actually stand up, on the strength of his tail, now that it was a proper thing.

The tail started at his hips, where the scales speckled around his lower abdomen until his pelvis disappeared into a tail, red underbelly and black scales. There were black scales speckled up all over his body, where he had massive claws for hands and his skin turned black and disappeared into scales up his arms, over his shoulders. There were scales over his jaw, over his forehead like a  _ crown _ . His eyes glowed a threatening gold, and his teeth were sharper than they’d been. There were marks on his cheeks, too, in black streaks diagonally down from his eyes, like cracks in the skin with darkness bleeding through.

And he was  _ big _ . He was taller, like this, with a broader body. Even though the tail began lower down, it was still just as long, longer, even, and had to coil up around itself to fit into the space it had. When he looked at himself, like this, Crowley saw nothing short of a monster, but that was when he heard the gasp.

Aziraphale was standing in the doorway, then, with his hands trembling and wrung out in front of him. His eyes were wide, and his breathing was fast. But it wasn’t fear, no. And this time, Crowley could smell it. It was something far more  _ wonderful _ than fear, and if he’d never finally been  _ this _ , he would have never been able to see this for what it was.

Oh, it was  _ lust _ .

“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, but really, what could he say that hadn’t already been said?

“Those are some, uh,” Aziraphale gulped, finding himself unsure of what to say, “large claws, you have. Is this—is this the form you were talking about?”

“It is.”

“I—it’s not so bad. I. I might even say I liked it.” Aziraphale’s gaze was wandering down the length of Crowley’s body.

And suddenly, Crowley found that he  _ could  _ change himself. Not entirely, not in the way to get himself back to human, but he pulled and tugged until his claws disappeared and left him with stained, black hands, instead. The sudden change did not go unnoticed, and Aziraphale could feel the surge of power from it. He was standing in front of a full-fledged demon, a terrifying thing that could rip his spine from his body and leave no marks behind. And he wasn’t afraid.

“I won’t come an inch closer,” Crowley assured.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice caught in his throat. “Crowley, I  _ want _ you to.”

Still, Crowley shook his head. He wouldn’t be drunk on the power, and he wouldn’t be drunk on the scent of lust. That was a demon’s path, and he wouldn’t  _ be _ a demon. He would be  _ Crowley. _ Crowley wouldn’t take advantage of Aziraphale’s kindness or the situation the both of them were stuck in. He’d never do something so  _ base _ .

But that was the end of it. That was the first step that would end everything they were and begin everything they could have been. Crowley didn’t have to come closer, because Aziraphale took that step.

“You asked me what I meant when I said that I cared about you, Crowley. Surely, you must know by now. I—” Aziraphale choked on it. Afraid of it. But he watched as Crowley didn’t move.

Crowley was afraid of himself, but in the same way that Aziraphale could never fear him, Crowley could never fear Aziraphale. No matter what he had to say, Crowley would hang on every word, like he always did. All the times they had eaten together and spent hours in the restaurant, Crowley had given him that look. Stared at him. Hung on every word, behind his glasses, where he thought that Aziraphale couldn’t see him. There were no glasses to hide him, this time. Aziraphale could  _ see _ what it meant, to hear this. What it  _ would _ mean.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley moved across the floor faster than any creature of his size should have been able to, and oh, how it was worth it. Crowley  _ lifted _ him right off the ground where Aziraphale could sit on the curve of his tail, his legs wrapped around Crowley’s hips, and they could  _ kiss _ . Oh, it wasn’t their first kiss. There had been so many drunken kisses, kisses done in the name of hiding, kisses for kisses sake when they thought the other wouldn’t remember. But this kiss was a  _ real _ kiss.

This kiss was Crowley’s hands around Aziraphale’s face, Aziraphale’s hands, in turn, around Crowley’s neck. Their heads tilted, shifted to press closer together where their noses wouldn’t bump but their lips were pressed, closed and chaste. It was the sort of kiss one might expect to have at their very first dance, and this would certainly be a sort of dance, if Aziraphale could help it. Already, he was drumming his fingertips over Crowley’s spattered scales, enamored by the form before him.

“To bed,” Aziraphale gasped, when their kiss broke. “Crowley, take me to bed.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? We’ve only just, I mean—isn’t it too soon?”

“Do you love me?” Aziraphale asked, plainly.

“Well, of course I do. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

“I love you, too. That’s enough. We’ve waited far too long to do anything about this that we shouldn’t waste any more time, Crowley. Now, please,” Aziraphale pointed to the bed, “lay with me.”

“Even like this? Aziraphale—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sternly. He cupped Crowley’s jaw and pressed their foreheads together. “You trust me, yes? I know that there is nothing more that I could possibly want more than this. I know that you won’t hurt me.”

Not on purpose, anyway, but Crowley swallowed that back down. That was another comment that meant he didn’t trust Aziraphale. Aziraphale wasn’t just an angel—he was a Principality, the angel that had been tasked with guarding the eastern gate of Eden. If Crowley was truly so out of control and demonic, Aziraphale would be able to fight him back. Crowley had to trust that, even with that heavy scent in the air, that Aziraphale would protect himself.

“Besides,” Aziraphale grinned, “you must want this too. Even a little bit. You wouldn’t be so worried, otherwise. And—” for this, Aziraphale ghosted his fingers over Crowley’s hands and his black, knobby fingers. “—you wouldn’t have done this. What use was there to rid yourself of claws if not to put your hands on me?”

Crowley, having been readily convinced, finally shifted them across the floor. He laid Aziraphale down on the bed, where the sight of him, his light clothing in the black of Crowley’s sheets, had something warm violently swirling in Crowley’s pelvis. Maybe he wanted this more than he wanted to admit, but there was still something that had to be done, before he’d let Aziraphale go any farther in removing his own clothing—which he was working very quickly on doing.

“How do you want to do this?” Crowley asked. He hadn’t even made his way onto the bed, yet, but he was hovering. He was hovering over Aziraphale like he was ready to pounce, but he didn’t want to give into those  _ animalistic _ urges that he had. He wouldn’t be demonic.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale laughed to himself. “I thought it would be rather obvious what I wanted. I—ah,” he breathed. He was already out of his waistcoat, and there, he pulled open the front of his shirt for Crowley to see. “I’d very much like for you to have me, my dear. I’ve thought about it quite more often than I—” Aziraphale’s voice cut off in a muffled continuance as Crowley clamped his hand down over Aziraphale’s mouth.

If Aziraphale was really going to go off into a spew about how he’d been  _ dreaming _ of all the ways Crowley might take him, Crowley wasn’t going to last much longer than a second. He wasn’t even properly aroused, yet, and he could already feel the prickling bits of pleasure along his spine that told him he was absolutely done for, completely whipped.

When he was sure Aziraphale was done talking, Crowley pulled his hand away, and then pulled himself up onto the bed. Now, he was more than happy to help get Aziraphale undressed. He would need him that way, after all, if he were to  _ have _ him. Every instinct in Crowley’s body was telling him to rip Aziraphale’s clothes right from his body and then hold him down and take, take,  _ take _ . Crowley, the  _ real _ Crowley, wanted to  _ give _ . He wanted Aziraphale to think back on this moment with every ounce of love an angel could possibly feel, without a pang of regret. That’s what Crowley wanted, and he was done listening to the part of him that wanted him to be a demon.

Crowley helped Aziraphale out of his shirt, shivering at the way he all but peeled out of it. Aziraphale was just as desperate to have his clothes away as Crowley was to see him naked. For all their time together, this would be something new and exciting. Every new inch of skin revealed had Crowley itching to get his mouth on it. Aziraphale’s chest was pale and plump, his nipples a cute rose color and already hard. His stomach was firm and round, the perfect shape for Crowley’s hands to cup around. He wanted Aziraphale to know  _ exactly _ how much he loved this body he had. He’d always loved it.

Then, it was time for Aziraphale’s trousers. Crowley had hesitated to get them open, but it was somehow more exciting to watch Aziraphale undo his own buttons and zippers, then wiggle his hips in such a wonderful little fashion that had the whole of him jiggling. Crowley really needed to be less stupid about this, but watching Aziraphale take off his own trousers was something he needed to commit to memory for the rest of his life. What was beneath his trousers, though, was something else altogether.

In reality, Crowley had not spent much time imagining what Aziraphale might have crafted for himself. Angels still had that taboo law about sex, and there had always been that preaching that it was something to be done after marriage—and angels didn’t get married, as far as Crowley knew. They certainly didn’t marry demons. As such, he’d never really thought Aziraphale  _ was _ incredibly sexual, no matter how much his own sex loved to respond to the idea of Aziraphale, naked, writing, and wanton. Those had been thoughts. Crowley had still always believed that Aziraphale would just have a soft expanse of skin between his thighs, and this proved him wrong.

Aziraphale was wearing soft blue panties that came up over the roll of his stomach, but down between the fat of his thighs, he was sporting a rather obvious wet spot. If Crowley had expected anything at all, it surely wouldn’t have been this, but he  _ had _ to see it. He curled his fingers into the waistband of the panties and made a slow, gentle tug of them down. Aziraphale actually  _ gasped _ when the fabric peeled away from the slick skin of his cunt, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t possibly imagine resisting this.

Crowley’s eyes were locked on him entirely, through the whole movement of sliding the panties down his legs and off, onto the floor. When Crowley’s hands slipped back up, one on each of Aziraphale’s thighs, the feeling was far more intimate than it otherwise should have been. It was a slow, gentle caress that had Aziraphale’s entire body trembling in anticipation for what Crowley would do to him, with him,  _ for _ him. Crowley was eyeing him with a certain type of hunger that left Aziraphale immobile, lying there, desperate to spread his legs and bring Crowley close.

Crowley did come close, dipping down so they could kiss while their bodies rolled together. The texture of Crowley’s scales against Aziraphale’s cunt had him dripping, already. Every roll of Crowley’s hips between his thighs  _ dragged _ those scales over his lips and the swell of his mound—and it was  _ everything _ . Aziraphale was panting into Crowley’s kiss, tangling their tongues together in his desperation to have Crowley close to him, near him, inside of him. He wanted everything of Crowley he could have, and from the touch of Crowley’s hands on his sides, he knew he was going to get  _ everything _ .

When Crowley pulled back, it was to lean down and smother kisses over his skin, instead. His hands had come up to mold over Aziraphale’s chest, and the sensation went right to his groin. Crowley palmed at him, over his nipples and over the swell of each tit like he wanted to memorize the way that it felt. All the while, he was dragging his lips over Aziraphale’s jaw, his neck, and leaving little pin prick marks in his wake from the caress of his teeth. He’d never bite down hard enough to hurt, even if he had the strength to rip skin from bone, like this.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, rolling his hips to meet Crowley’s scales.

Crowley pulled away. “You’re  _ beautiful,” _ he whispered. “Do you know that, Aziraphale? How beautiful you are?”

Aziraphale shuddered and shook his head—he didn’t believe that. His own little hoarded insecurity. Where Crowley could fear himself too much a demon, Aziraphale would fear himself too much a human, where his indulging had left him old, fat, and ugly.

“I’ll show you,” Crowley promised, dipping his head back down.

This time, there was tongue along Aziraphale’s skin, and he shuddered all the more for it. His hips were working themselves down on Crowley, and from the close touch, Crowley could  _ feel _ everything. The swelling of Aziraphale’s clit into something a bit more than a clit, a bit less than a cock was something Crowley would think on for the rest of his days. Aziraphale’s hedonistic ways were something that he loved and desired, more than anything, to encourage.

Crowley dipped down just a bit farther, pulling one hand away from Aziraphale’s tit to rub it down over the swell of his stomach, down between his thighs where he could press his fingers over Aziraphale’s newly swollen clit and hear him gasp with his pleasure. Crowley might have said something, but he only managed an appreciative hum as he wrapped his lips over Aziraphale’s nipple, instead. He sucked the hard, little nub and rolled his tongue over it, as he sunk down over Aziraphale’s skin just a little farther.

Aziraphale had plush, red nipples and a wide areolae around them that were just as sensitive. Crowley wanted all of it in his mouth, to press his tongue over and feel every inch of trembling skin. Aziraphale would lose himself in this pleasure, and that was exactly what Crowley wanted. There wasn’t anywhere for Aziraphale to go to escape it: Crowley’s mouth over his left tit, Crowley’s hand on his right, and Crowley’s other hand down between his legs, rubbing him so  _ slowly _ that it was almost a miracle Aziraphale wasn’t begging for more. His hips were certainly trying, bucking down into Crowley’s hand to urge him on.

When Crowley switched sides, between hand and mouth over Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale keened and arched his back. Everything felt like it was happening all at once, and all he could manage to do in return was run his fingers through Crowley’s hair and say how  _ wonderful _ it was.

“You—” Aziraphale gasped, “You’re so beautiful, Crowley. It feels so wonderful, I—” he cut off as Crowley continued.

Crowley’s mouth continued to trail down while his hands, both of them, reached out to where his arms would stretch to keep touching Aziraphale’s chest, tweaking his nipples until he moaned. All the while, Crowley licked his tongue down between every roll and crevice of Aziraphale’s body, leaving no inch of him untouched, unloved. He didn’t need his hands to help with this, nudging Aziraphale’s stomach every which way to get a proper hold on his fat, between Crowley’s teeth and nibbling down on it.

“Oh, Crowley—!” Aziraphale cried out. Part of him wanted to say  _ don’t. _ How could Crowley find something so unseemly to be beautiful, desirable? But, when Aziraphale looked down, all he could see were Crowley’s  _ eyes _ , through the valley of his tits.

Crowley’s dark, monstrous hands were clamped down on his chest, still rubbing and molding Aziraphale’s skin until there were sure to be marks. There  _ were _ marks, leading down in a trail from his hands to where his teeth were so gently around the little pouch that would have hung over Aziraphale’s belly button, if he’d had one. And his eyes, oh, Crowley’s  _ eyes _ were still on him, staring at him. Hungry. Aziraphale had no idea what it meant, but the shiver that ran through him was more than enough to make it feel  _ good _ .

Crowley  _ did _ think he was beautiful, and he was trying his best to show this. Eventually, his hands even left so he could move farther, farther down Aziraphale’s body and grasp at his hips. He kneaded his fingertips into all the lovely, wonderful extra skin and fat there while his tongue continued to trail down along the underside of Aziraphale’s belly. Then, Aziraphale let out a loud cry and his hips bucked.

Everything was sudden hot and  _ wet _ where Crowley’s lips were around his swollen clit, his tongue rubbing over the skin. Crowley moaned around the weight in his mouth, letting his eyes dip closed as he sucked and nudged. Aziraphale’s thighs were trembling, trying to squeeze together at the suddenness of this, but Crowley held him firm. Crowley grounded him and gave him the chance to  _ feel _ , to indulge in everything he’d been told was bad. But it couldn’t be bad, because Crowley loved him, and Crowley made him feel  _ so _ good.

When Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale’s swollen clit, it was to move his lips down over Aziraphale’s labia, dipping his tongue through the folds and creases, trying to get a feel for everything. Each time Aziraphale’s hips twitched or he moaned, Crowley doubled down there with tongue and a gentle touch of teeth until Aziraphale was positively whimpering, writing under Crowley’s touch, and Crowley had  _ barely _ touched him. That was a thought too soon, and Aziraphale nearly shouted when Crowley ran his tongue through the length of his slit, brushing over his dripping little hole and along his clit, again.

“Crowley—Crowley,  _ please, _ I can’t take much more.”

“You’re doing  _ wonderfully _ ,” Crowley told him. “You’re so beautiful, angel. I could spend the rest of my life down here, you know.”

“Please, please,  _ please _ ,” Aziraphale gasped. He rolled his hips for extra emphasis, and Crowley hummed into his skin.

He wanted to tell Aziraphale how beautiful he was, how perfect he looked like this. How, if Crowley had ever imagined him with his thighs spread and sex between them, this would have been better than every dream every put together. This was  _ real _ , and Aziraphale was everything he’d ever dreamed about. But there was something slightly more important to be doing with his mouth, his tongue. He wanted to give Aziraphale every pleasure he’d never had, and there was only one day to do that.

Crowley lavished his tongue over Aziraphale’s hole, pressing his lips into the folds around to make sure everything was heightened, glorious. Only then did he press his tongue inside; Crowley even shivered, moaned at how easily Aziraphale accepted him. It was like Aziraphale was begging for him without words, without the ability to do anything more than moan and thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley took one of those hands in his own, that their fingers would intertwine while he only pressed his tongue in, deeper.

Aziraphale trembled and writhed, his back arching when he suddenly felt the weight inside of him grow. Crowley’s  _ tongue _ was morphing from the long, serpentine thing back into the thick, weighty thing of a human’s tongue. Crowley would pride himself on the ability to do that, to stretch Aziraphale on his tongue alone. Where he’d had no control before, it was all trickling back in the best ways possible.

It was all too much, all at once, and Aziraphale shouted when the rush of orgasm through him. His thighs squeezed, his cunt clenched down, and everything was a white crest of pleasure that he couldn’t back away from. Crowley’s tongue was still inside him, flicking through all the wonderful, sensitive nerves and pressing right where he had Aziraphale crying out. Crowley dragged every last second of his orgasm out into moments, slick gushing down and making more than a mess on the sheets beneath them.

Aziraphale wanted to be embarrassed, when Crowley pulled back. The look on Crowley’s face was too awe-struck, too blissed-out, and full of love for Aziraphale to feel anything but satisfied and wonderful. Crowley was slinking back up his body, after that, resting the weight of his tail between Aziraphale’s thighs and over his vulva while he laid the rest of himself out, his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Did you enjoy that?” Crowley asked. “I wanted you to feel good.”

“Oh, Crowley, it was wonderful.  _ You’re _ wonderful. Positively amazing, I don’t know how I ever—”

“Please,” Crowley begged, “shut up.”

Aziraphale laughed and tilted his head, pressing his lips into Crowley’s hair. “You’re perfect, dear,” he whispered. He could  _ feel _ how Crowley trembled on top of him, and that was the perfect reminder. “What about you? Won’t you feel good?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley insisted, but he was fidgeting, shivering. He clearly hadn’t found his own release, and Aziraphale pouted about it.

He had his hands back through Crowley’s hair, holding his face only inches above his own so that Crowley couldn’t look away from him. “Crowley, love,  _ please _ . I asked you to lie with me—won’t you? Would you really deny me, this?”

Crowley sighed. “It’s not—it’s not  _ normal _ .”

“Oh, posh, Crowley. It’s you, and that’s what I asked for, isn’t it? I want to see you, and I want to have you. You’d do well not to deny me, you know.”

“Oh?” Crowley chuckled. “Why’s that, angel?”

“I will not leave this bed until you’ve felt just as good as I have. You’ll never be rid of me.”

“Perhaps I want that.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “ _ Today _ , Crowley. Please,” said as sincerely as he could.

Crowley’s amusement dropped away. He pulled back from Aziraphale, slowly and reluctantly, while his tail straightened up beneath him to hold him up. Once he was properly standing, Aziraphale could see  _ everything _ , from the scales that peppered his neck to where his skin disappeared into the thick of his tail, his hips and pelvis nearly entirely snake. It wasn’t normal by any stretch of a human’s world, but it was normal for Crowley. In this form, his  _ truest _ form, this was what he looked like.

There were scales that had shifted up and apart to reveal what was beneath, fully erect and slick with something not entirely human, either. There were two cocks, protruding from him, each with a flat head that tapered down into a thick base. They were long, too, and rather monstrous. Crowley wouldn’t have dared to look at Aziraphale’s reaction if there was someplace else to look, but there wasn’t. So, he looked at Aziraphale and saw everything he’d ever hoped to see.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped at the sight of them. He shifted himself that he might spread his thighs just a bit wider, hoping that Crowley saw how open he was, how desperate. He could already imagine what it would be like to have Crowley inside of him, those scales moving against him. Aziraphale had only just come, but still, he could feel the warmth spreading back through his cunt as the slick started all over again. Aziraphale  _ needed _ this.

“Maybe just one,” Crowley tried to soothe a situation he didn’t understand. He hadn’t expected total, loving acceptance.

“Both,” Aziraphale insisted. “I need this. I need  _ you _ , Crowley, please. As close as I can have you, for as long as I can. I—I love you, Crowley.”

Crowley bit down on his lip and smiled a stupid little smile. “You keep saying that.”

“I have a lot of years to make up for.”

“I love you, too,” Crowley breathed.

Crowley’s tail moved before he did, coiling around Aziraphale and manhandling him into a proper position. There was so much tail, so much of  _ Crowley _ , all around him, suddenly. Coiling up around him. Aziraphale was helpless but to let Crowley move him, spread him, open his thighs until he was precisely where he needed to be. He was sitting on Crowley’s tail, the rest of it coiled up around his chest, his stomach, his leg. Crowley’s body, the human part of him, was behind him, pressed so closely that Aziraphale could feel the rise and fall of his chest, as he breathed.

There wasn’t a moment further to lose. Crowley’s fingers dipped down between Aziraphale’s thighs, again, to run through the slick of his cunt. Aziraphale was far more focused on the sight, though, seeing Crowley’s cocks stand proudly where they were, just inches below his cunt. Crowley took one of them into hand, spreading Aziraphale’s slick and that dripping mess he’d produced down along it, working it until he was panting into Aziraphale’s ear.

“I’m ready for you,” Aziraphale insisted.

He couldn’t sate his own curiosity, not until he’d reached down to run his fingers over Crowley’s other cock. Crowley took in a sharp intake of breath at his touch but didn’t stop him. Crowley’s cock was wet and slick, and the texture of it was so weirdly smooth that Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to stroke it. Crowley continued his ministrations over his own cock, until they were working together. Stroking him at the same rhythm, the same pace. Crowley was positively shaking beneath him, and that was what had Crowley pulling both of their hands away.

“If I hurt you,” Crowley started, but Aziraphale didn’t let him finish.

Aziraphale rolled his cunt down into Crowley’s scales moaning and shivering at the tug and feel of it. He had his face buried into the side of Crowley’s neck, where he could feel the scales, lick over them with his tongue and press his lips between them. There was nothing about this form that Aziraphale hadn’t fallen in love with, and he would try to show it in the best way possible.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s labia apart with one hand while the other wrapped around his cock. He shifted Aziraphale up and over, until there was nowhere left to go but down. Aziraphale swallowed him perfectly, his cunt taking every inch of cock that Crowley had to offer until he was fully seated, his skin back against scales. Only, he could still tell something was wrong. He could  _ feel _ the slick mess of Crowley’s second cock in the junction of his thigh and pelvis, and it made him whine.

“Crowley, I said  _ both _ —” he tried to lean forward, but Crowley had a tight grip on him, around his chest, and pulled him back. Crowley’s tail moved, then, squeezing his chest a little tighter and flicking the very end of his tail over Aziraphale’s nipples.

“One at a time,” Crowley told him. “I won’t hurt you.”  _ That _ was said as a promise, and all Aziraphale could do was moan.

Aziraphale played his fingers over Crowley’s scales while Crowley worked him, rolling his hips up until they were grinding together. He wanted Aziraphale slick and open, and while Aziraphale held onto him, Crowley had his hand back between his thighs and running over his folds.

Aziraphale gasped at the touch, Crowley’s fingers near his hole, where his cunt swallowed Crowley’s cock again and again, with every one of Crowley’s thrusts. Crowley rubbed around the stretch of him, his fingertips threatening to push inside, and Aziraphale went stiff in Crowley’s hold. In response, Crowley pressed his lips into Aziraphale’s neck and tried to soothe him.

“Relax, love,” Crowley said. “You’re doing so well. I promise, you’ll feel  _ so _ good, like this. I wouldn’t ever let harm come to you; you know that.”

Aziraphale breathed deeply but nodded. He squeezed his fingers into Crowley’s shoulder and  _ moaned _ into his ear, as Crowley’s fingers sunk inside of him. He opened right up for Crowley, stretching around the new girth. He took everything Crowley had to give, and Crowley had nothing but praises and whispers and  _ love _ , now. Everything he said had Aziraphale shivering, crying out. Crowley thought he was perfect, thought he was  _ good _ , thought he was everything beautiful in the world rolled up into one wonderful package.

When he was with Crowley, Aziraphale could believe that, because that’s what he was to Crowley. Every second longer they were together proved it; Aziraphale had never felt such pure, gushing love from one person, and for a demon—it was beautiful. It was everything Aziraphale could have ever wanted and more. More, and always more, because more was what Crowley wanted to give him. That was when Aziraphale felt the fingers go and the incessant press of Crowley’s second cock.

With whispered sweet nothings in his ear, Aziraphale eased himself down. Crowley held him steady, held him firm, and just as he promised—nothing would hurt. When Aziraphale opened his eyes and  _ looked _ , he could see where Crowley’s cocks disappeared inside of him, and he nearly came at the thought alone. He had Crowley’s tail all coiled up around him, Crowley’s cocks inside of him, and Crowley behind him with nothing but whispers and kisses and  _ praise _ .

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped.

“I’ve got you,” Crowley insisted. “I’m never letting you go.”

There was a burst of  _ love _ when Crowley started to move. His thrusts were shallow but sharp, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but meet them each with his own hips, rolling down that he could feel how deep Crowley was inside of him, the ripple of his scales when they worked just right, together. There was no way to tell who ended and who began, and where that might have even been. They moved together in such a tandem, such a rhythm that there was no more separation.

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s chest just as tightly as his tail was. Aziraphale leaned back, in response, and they were kissing. Fucking. Rolling their hips together and losing themselves in the other. Aziraphale had never felt this type of pleasure before, and the more it wrung up inside of him, the more he never wanted to let it go. And Crowley, oh, Crowley looked like he was having the time of his life. When their kiss broke, it was all Crowley could do to keep himself steady, from losing himself entirely.

He’d never wanted anything more than this. Aziraphale’s love. Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale’s  _ everything _ , all for him, working so beautifully on top of him that it was like a dream. Every squeeze of Aziraphale’s cunt around his cocks was just a reminder of what he had, where he was. Aziraphale was in his lap, seated over him and grinding down for more. He  _ wanted _ Crowley inside of him. Needed it. Needed to be together, as closely as they could, and every thrust was just a fulfillment of that.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley suddenly gasped. “I—you,” he didn’t know what to say, only that he was  _ close _ .

Like Aziraphale could feel it, he smiled. “I know, Crowley, I know. Come inside me, my dear.”

Crowley groaned, and how could he ever deny a thing Aziraphale wanted of him, now? He worked his hips up, hard and fast and erratic. He was chasing pleasure for himself, lost in the feeling of Aziraphale’s warmth, the slickness around his cocks, and every burst of pressure when Aziraphale clenched down around him, his own moans spilling out. When Crowley finally came, he came in waves and twice as much as Aziraphale had ever expected. He could feel every streak inside of his cunt, and his jaw dropped open in a silent cry—it felt so  _ good _ .

Crowley didn’t stop moving his hips, didn’t stop fucking up into Aziraphale until Aziraphale found his next wave of pleasure, a sudden rush taken hold of him as he clenched down around Crowley a final time and spasmed around him, moaning into the skin of his neck, his scales, and panting as it all died back down again.

They sat together for a long time, Aziraphale wrapped up in Crowley’s tail, his arms, just breathing together. They didn’t have the strength to move, the strength to talk. It’d been more intense than anything either of them could have ever imagined, and just like that, it was over. In its wake was the wonderment of a new potential. This new thing between them could be just as much a beginning, as it was an end, but there was a time and a place for everything.

The current time was well into the night, and Crowley knew they couldn’t stay like this. He was already going soft, and soon, his cocks would tuck themselves back away into his scales. Before that happened, he lifted Aziraphale with the strength of his tail and laid him out on the sheets. Crowley’s tail uncoiled, leaving Aziraphale to lie there with that smile on his face. Crowley, taken with such a look, leaned down to press his lips into Aziraphale’s, humming into their new kiss. A soft, loving sort of kiss.

Aziraphale, ever curious, ran his fingers over Crowley’s hips while they kissed, feeling him shiver and buck from the sensitivity still left. Aziraphale’s hand stopped over Crowley’s cocks, where he  _ felt _ them disappear and the scales shift back into place. The whole ordeal made Aziraphale shiver, and next time, he wanted to watch it happen. Next time, he wanted his mouth there when the scales parted. Next time. Next time.  _ Next time _ —he wanted it all.

“We should bathe,” Crowley said, “We’re a mess.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’d rather not get up, if it’s all the same to you. I’d also fear that your new size would crack your lovely tub, dear.”

Crowley snorted, “Alright, then.”

Just like second nature, where he hadn’t even realized it was him, Crowley snapped his fingers up. The mess was gone, in an instant, and Crowley settled down on the sheets, beside Aziraphale. His tail was too long for the bed and draped off the end of the bed. Crowley tucked himself right along Aziraphale’s side, where he had always been exceedingly bendable, and rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

They could talk in the morning. They had a lot to talk about, but they could do it in the morning. For the moment, sleep seemed a more pressing matter. Sleep was always a pressing matter, but somehow felt more urgent when Aziraphale was ready for a nap. He made a point to snuggle up to Crowley first, but he did fall asleep. Eventually.

Come morning, it was the sound of a shower that roused Crowley from his rest. The shower turning off, to be precise, and that would explain the empty warm spot beside him. Crowley was glad that it was the shower sound and not the empty spot that had woken him up—he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if he’d seen the empty space before knowing its explanation. A shower was a perfectly reasonable thing to have, in the morning, even if they’d been miracled clean.

Crowley might even like a shower, too. Everything felt a little strange when he pushed himself up, though. It was that falling sensation when one might go to grab something they expected to be ten times as heavy as it was, where he expected himself to be quite a chore to pick up out of bed, but he sat up rather fast with the force that he’d pushed his torso up with. Aziraphale’s gasp, from the doorway, came before Crowley had actually registered what it was, he was looking at.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re back to yourself,” Aziraphale cheered, rushing across the room.

Aziraphale was right. Crowley had legs, again. Seeing legs was somehow more jarring than realizing how naked he was. Given what they’d just done, being naked didn’t seem to be the problem. Crowley would figure out why he still had two cocks later, but for the moment, Aziraphale might have even been  _ relieved _ to see two flaccid shafts instead of one. Crowley might have been excited to see that joy in his face, as that had been the one thing that really mattered.

“I think you saved me,” Crowley said. “I think I was so caught up in fighting myself that my body just couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“I didn’t do a thing, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted. “Come, let’s get you up and clean, shall we?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley pressed, “listen to me. I really think—I mean—I was so afraid that you’d hate me, if you ever knew what I was. But you don’t hate me.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale reminded. “But, Crowley, I haven’t done a thing. You’ve simply just accepted yourself, haven’t you? I think that’s a very noble thing to do.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Not everything is, dear. It’s a path I’ll gladly help you on, though. I think I might need to walk it, myself.”

Crowley sighed, but he smiled. Aziraphale was impossible to argue with at the best of times, especially when he was right. Aziraphale had just been there to witness it happen, to see the seconds as Crowley realized that it wasn’t about what he looked like, it was about what he did. Even now, he knew that it hadn’t been a monstrous black out. He remembered all of it, and Aziraphale was perfectly fine. There were no gaping wounds, just little purple bruises that speckled all up and down his front.

“Does this change anything?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, Crowley, it changes  _ everything _ ,” Aziraphale said. He shifted further onto the bed so he could take Crowley’s hands in his own. Crowley’s hands had returned to their normal look—rugged, veined hands with wrinkles and calluses. “There’s so much we can change, now. Now that we know, I mean.”

“That we know? Know what?”

Aziraphale laughed. “How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” he asked with a gentle voice, a gentle touch of his palm to Crowley’s cheek. “Now that we know we’re in  _ love _ , Crowley. How can anything ever be the same?”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Aziraphale pushed off the bed to make a show of it, as he always did, with his arms outstretched. He was wearing Crowley’s black silken robe, from the bathroom, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile as he watched Aziraphale prance about it in.

“There’s so much that can be new! Dates, Crowley. Oh, and flowers, wines, and chocolates. We should kiss far more often than we have before. And that—we should, well,” Aziraphale’s prancing stopped and his face went red. “We should make love, too, don’t you think?”

“Maybe we might even get married.” Crowley had meant it as a joke, but Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, Crowley! We should! There’s so much to do. Everything is brand new and wonderful, and—and, we should find a place for ourselves, don’t you think? Married people live together, do they not?”

Crowley laughed in response. “Hey now, we’re not married yet.”

“We need a nest of our own. We should start looking immediately, and—yes, I’ll sell the shop. What do I need a silly old bookshop for, anyway? We can even move out of London! Oh, Crowley—” Aziraphale whirled around to see Crowley again, his excitement mellowing when he saw the look on Crowley’s face.

Crowley was smiling the softest smile he’d ever seen, with such a gentle gaze in his eyes that it was almost hard for Aziraphale to believe that Crowley was looking at him. Because it was  _ love _ . It was love for every stupid twirl Aziraphale had just made, for every foolish outburst, and every strange gesture. He didn’t even seem to care that Aziraphale had suggested selling the shop, and that washed away every worry Aziraphale had let himself fall into, before.

“We’re doing this, aren’t we?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded. “If you’ll have me, Crowley.”

Crowley moved from the bed, pulling the sheet with him to wrap it around his hips before he approached Aziraphale. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands into his own, intertwining their fingers, and pulling Aziraphale close enough that their chests brushed. Crowley just looked at Aziraphale for a long time, smiling at him, until he leaned in to bump their foreheads together. Then, his eyes closed, and Aziraphale followed suit.

“I’ve known many people,” Crowley said, “and many angels. Demons, too, in fact. None of them, not in six-thousand years, dove, have ever held a candle to you. There’s no one else I’d rather have.”

Aziraphale pulled his hands away to wrap his arms tightly around Crowley’s waist, instead. The suddenness of the hug shocked Crowley, but after a moment with open eyes, he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and cradled Aziraphale’s head to his chest. They swayed together, then, for only a moment. There were still things they needed to do. Things to talk about. Things to work on. Things to plan for. All of that could wait, though.

First, Crowley would shower and make them breakfast. Over a nice stack of pancakes, they could talk about every aspect of the future. After all, there was nothing standing in the way of it, anymore. And the next time that Crowley looked in a mirror, in  _ their _ bathroom, in  _ their _ home, he wouldn’t be afraid to see a scale every now and again. After all, he was still Crowley. He was just Crowley with a partner, now.

**Author's Note:**

> 𓆏 Froge Bounces 𓆏  
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